Sherlollipops
by MizJoely
Summary: Because we all deserve short sweet treats. A series of unrelated Sherlolly one-shots, ratings to vary, based on things I've read or heard or been told in passing & inspired by other writers. Story 10 now posted, rated K.
1. Cousin Lizzie's 60th

Cousin Lizzie's Sixtieth - A Sherlolly Short-Short

_A/N: First in a series of who knows how many short-short Sherlolly stories that I decided to lump together. These are not exactly prompts, but each story has been/will be prompted by something another Sherlollian has said to me, explanation to appear at the end of each story. Not meant to be taken seriously in any way, shape or form, not owned by me, etc. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Sherlock, have you informed Molly of our family plans for the upcoming week?"

Mycroft Holmes' supercilious tones cut through his brother's attempts at mentally recreating a crime scene with the sharpness of a scalpel – and was just as welcome as a blade across his skin would have been.

Sherlock looked over at the other man with a glare. "Sorry, Mycroft, but I thought she might want to forgo attending a family function when she knows none of the people in question."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and his brother gave an exaggerated sigh. "All right, fine. She knows _of_ them. But she certainly has no personal knowledge of them. Any of them, especially the more distant cousins and hangers-on and old family retainers sure to turn this entire, tedious process into a three-ring circus."

"These things always devolve into a three-ring circus, as you so colorfully put it," Mycroft replied with a sniff. "However, family obligations of this nature cannot be ignored. It is her sixtieth, you know."

Sherlock threw himself on the sofa with a huff, arms crossed as he returned to glaring at his brother, who had simply entered the flat at 221B Baker Street unanounced, without knocking and set this entire, ridiculous discussion in motion. "Molly never makes me attend _her_ family gatherings," he said, changing tactics when it became clear that Mycroft wasn't going to simply let this go.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had been married for less than six months, the wedding having taken place immediately after his triumphant return the world of the living. Moriarty's network was crushed, the last remaining member of the madman's inner circle – one Sebastian Moran, expert marksman and sniper as well as Moriarty's right-hand-man – had been apprehended during a tense, rooftop confrontation at the site of Moriarty's actual – and Sherlock's faux – suicide. John Watson had punched Sherlock in the face, Mrs. Hudson had wept copiously on his shoulder, DI Lestrade had sworn in what sounded like four different languages, and everything had finally settled back to normal – or as normal as Sherlock Holmes could ever manage.

This new normal included marrying his favorite pathologist and partner-in-crime – said crime being the faking of Sherlock's suicide, of course – Molly Elizabeth Kathleen Hooper. Everyone had been stunned at his public marriage proposal, including the bride-to-be, but no one had been surprised when she accepted. Mycroft had done his level best to dissuade his brother from this course of action, but had swiftly backed down when Sherlock threatened to talk Molly into immediately procreating with him. The thought of his younger brother attempting parenthood had always been a particular nightmare of Mycroft's, and he was wise enough to know when he'd been beaten.

All of this had taken place far from Molly's radar, of course; all she knew was that Sherlock and his brother were having one of their many, many disagreements about something shortly before the wedding, but resolved it in time for Mycroft to attend the event as one of the few guests. John, his fiancee Mary Morstan, Lestrade and his (for the moment) wife, Mrs Hudson and her baker beau, Molly's brother and his wife made up the rest of the guest list, and the press was decoyed away easily enough once Mycroft put his considerable resources to work.

That had been at the end of April. It was now the beginning of June and here was Mycroft needlessy stirring things up again.

"Sherlock, Molly never makes you attend her family gatherings for the simple reason there haven't been any since your wedding," he pointed out in that put-upon tone he used so often when the two of them were forced to interact. "I'm certain once your sister-in-law's baby is born there will be christenings and showers and events of that nature from which you will not be excused."

Damn, Sherlock hated when Mycroft was right. And in this matter he would undoubtedly turn out to be right; although Molly still tended to put her husband's needs ahead of hers, she also stood up for herself with a great deal more frequency than she did before his fall from the roof of St. Bart's nearly two years earlier. And this was exactly the sort of thing she would insist on dragging him to.

He sighed. Deeply. He could sound just as put-upon as his brother. "Fine," he muttered. "I'll make sure she has the appropriate clothing and etiquette lessons."

"Etiquette lessons for what?"

Molly had entered the flat fresh from her shift at the morgue, smiling politely at her brother-in-law but reserving a brighter, much less forced-looking smile for her husband. She restrained herself from kissing him, which he appreciated, since Mycroft would only find something demeaning to say about public displays of affection – even when said displays were actually in the privacy of a man's own flat, where he could reasonably be expected to kiss his wife whenever he damn well pleased.

"For Cousin Lizzie's sixtieth," he replied before Mycroft could respond, which he was clearly about to do.

"Sherlock, you know she hates it when you call her that," his elder brother began in remonstration, but Sherlock plowed right over him, determined to make the announcement his way.

"It's Cousin Lizzie's sixtieth," he continued defiantly. "An awful fuss will be made, everyone in the family no matter how distant is expected to attend, and that, unfortunately, includes us." He gave her a hopeful look. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."

Molly walked over to where he was sitting on the sofa, placed her handbag on the low table, and sat next to him, a prim six inches away from his body as she cast an uncertain gaze in Mycroft's direction. "It sounds important, Sherlock, surely Mycroft wouldn't have come all the way over here if it wasn't."

Her brother-in-law lowered his head in a brief nod, never removing his gaze from Sherlock's face. "It is important, and Sherlock knows it is. It's not an event that comes around every year, after all."

Molly laughed and leaned back. "Well, they do come around every year, but the noughts and fives are the most important, aren't they? That's what my grandmother always said, anyway."

Her smile dimmed as two sets of blue eyes bored into her suddenly worried brown ones. "What?" she asked, her tone extremely defensive. "Birthdays are important, but she said once you got older it was only the ones ending in noughts and fives that counted."

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut as he rose to his feet, umbrella firmly in hand. "Sherlock, please explain to your wife exactly what event we will be celebrating June 4th, then have her contact my PA to make the appropriate appointments for dress selection, hair and makeup, if you please. Molly, always, a pleasure."

Then he strode out of the flat, contentedly listening as he made his way down the stairs – and smiling broadly at Molly's shriek of dismay as Sherlock told her who "Cousin Lizzie" actually was.

It was time for her to meet that branch of the family, and Queen Elizabeth's sixtieth coronation anniversary was as good an occasion as any.

* * *

_A/N: Ok, this was prompted by a certain someone's comment in passing that she believed the Holmeses to be related to the British Royal Family. This is the most Mycroft I've ever written, it's entirely unbeta'd and was written in a single go so any mistakes are all mine. Feel free to PM any goofs to me and I will faithfully go bak and fix. :) Nother one coming soon. Oh, and these are going to be completely unrelated to one another. Just one shots jumping all over the place. :)_


	2. Like Crack

**Like Crack**

Dedicated to broomclosetkink...you know why! Also, to prove I'm not a heartless bitch who only likes to torture Molly...

_A/N: OK, this didn't start out to be "themed" but the last Sherlollipop involved an invitation to a party and so does this one, but I swear, I will find a way for any other stories that pop up not to involve parties. If I have to lie, cheat, steal or kill, I'll never go hun...wait, sorry. Wrong fandom._

* * *

It starts out innocently enough. Sherlock and Molly are strolling through some park or other near St. Bart's on her lunch break. He is trying (unsuccessfully) to convince her to take the remainder of the day off by feigning illness so they can spend more time together (which Molly accurately and laughingly points out, while telling him "No," is his code for "I'm bored and I want to have sex") when they pass a young couple pushing a pram.

More accurately, the young mother (twenty-three or twenty-four, former smoker who still sneaks a fag now and then, blonde hair only forty-five percent likely to be natural) is pushing the pram, while the father (two years older than she, Dominican or Puerto Rican judging by his skin tone and accent, they most likely met on the cruise ship he worked on before settling in London to work at a butcher's shop) is walking slightly beside the pram, peering down constantly and fretting over the arrangement of the infant's blankets.

They stop just as Molly and Sherlock are about to pass them, and Molly takes the opportunity to lean down and coo over the baby, or what little of her (him? Impossible to tell at this age, can't be more than three months old) beneath the blankets and bonnets, not to mention the enormous pacifier hiding a great deal of his (or her) face. Sherlock is about to say something derogatory or insulting – he is sure his words will be decried as such no matter how well-meaning – when the young mother offers to let Molly hold her (ah, a girl, mystery, such as it is, solved).

Molly stutters and stammers the way she used to whenever he came into the lab the first year they knew each other (and Sherlock studiously ignores how jealous he is that someone else can bring her to such a state) but eagerly holds out her arms and cradles the newborn enthusiastically. Sherlock is going to say something he knows will be taken poorly, about how idiotic it is to let a complete stranger handle your offspring even in a public venue, but Molly glances over at him and frowns and he lets the words die on his lips.

He considers deleting the incident from his mind palace, but leaves it intact; it involves Molly, after all, and he never deletes anything about her – never has, from the very beginning. He should have realized how important she was to him based on that fact alone, but even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes is not above deliberately ignoring the obvious, especially when it makes him uncomfortable. He does not, however, revisit that particular memory until the next incident.

One of her coworkers at St. Bart's is returning to work after a six-month maternity absence. It is pure ill timing on Sherlock's part that he arrives with DI Lestrade just as a mob of cooing and giggling women have descended on the morgue to greet the new arrival before the mother heads to the hospital creche. Molly, he notes with dismay, is right in the thick of things, tickling the baby (again, sex unknown, although he has a vague idea that the pink bonnet indicates a female) beneath the chin and grinning like a lunatic when (she?) makes some kind of noise.

It is a pleasant noise, he will grant that much; not a grunt or a cry or a screech, but he is still put off by the sight of Molly showing so much enthusiasm for a baby – for the second time in less than a month, part of his mind notes. Good Lord, are babies like crack to her? How could he have never noticed this addiction before? He feels a faint sense of alarm at the thought.

Lestrade doesn't help; he grins and nudges Sherlock in the ribs. "Giving you any ideas, mate?"

The look Sherlock bestows upon him is eloquent, but Lestrade's grin doesn't fade until the crowd has dispersed and they are left alone with Molly and the body of Mr. Henderson, whom they have come to examine.

Once again, nothing is said; once again, Sherlock assumes Molly was simply caught up in the emotions of the moment and concludes that he was overreacting; simply because he is seeing a side to his pathologist that he has never seen before, it doesn't mean anything else about their life together will change.

He doesn't even rethink that opinion when John and Mary announce that they are expecting a month after that. Sherlock had already deduced Mary's condition, of course, but after sharing the information with Molly he had been informed in no uncertain terms that he was not to say anything to John or Mary until they spoke to him about it first. Molly is all squeals of faux-surprise and (real) delight, Sherlock congratulates them (although he hardly sees the point, there are far more reasons _not_ to bring a child into the world than there are to do so) and that appears to be the end of the matter.

Then comes the invite. It arrives in the post three months later, for a baby shower, something called a "Jack and Jill" party, although he's certain he's never heard the term before. But the recipient of the party, Mary Morstan-Watson, is American by birth, so perhaps it is something from across the Pond and therefore hardly worth memorizing.

Molly squeals over the invite, and squeals even more when she reads the description, waving it under Sherlock's nose and insisting he look at it although he's already done so. However, when she reveals to him exactly what a "Jack and Jill" baby shower is, he rapidly loses what little enthusiasm he had for the whole idea – which was strictly based on the idea that he might be able to drag John away from his expectant wife's side for the duration of said party.

It's been difficult to get any time alone with his best friend and former flatmate, mostly because of the ever-expanding size of Mary's waistline. Her due date is still a month away but John acts as if the moment he leaves her side she'll fall into precipitous labor and expire before an ambulance arrives. Molly says it's "touching" and judging by the way she reacts to the invite, Sherlock suspects she wouldn't mind if he were as overly attentive as John.

Well. That won't be happening, for two reasons: One, Molly knew who she was getting involved with when he asked her to move in with him shortly after his return from the dead – _exactly_ who she was getting involved with. He knows all the derogatory terms that people have hurled at him – freak, overgrown man child (a personal favorite, that, mostly because John came up with it and it made him chuckle, still does), selfish – and knows as well how appropriate they are. None of them bother him, although Molly loyally tells off anyone who dares to put him down in front of her. It is only one of the many reasons he has allowed her into his heart.

The second reason she'll never see him acting so potty over her, of course, is that he and Molly won't ever be having children. She knows from first-hand experience how agonizing it is for a parent to lose a child, and he assumes – wrongly, as it will turn out in the near future – that she agrees with his opinion that it simply isn't worth the pain that would be felt if they brought a new life into the world. Yes, she was quite enthusiastic about holding that young woman in the park's baby, but she hasn't said or done anything to make him believe she feels differently than he does about parenthood – dull, too much work with the possibility of too little reward, and irresponsible considering the state of the world in which they live...or has she?

As she continues to excitedly declaim her excitement over the meaning of the blasted party – men and women to attend, really? – he casts his mind back over the past several months, and a hideous conclusion starts to form in his mind.

He cuts her off as she feverishly begins mumbling about the merits of "diaper genies" (whatever those are) and how many nappies one should bring to such an event. "Molly," he says, his voice sharper than he means it to be, but he is feeling quite anxious and simply plows ahead in spite of the alarm in her eyes as they meet his. "We've never discussed...that is to say, you've never given any indication in the past...do you actually want to have a child of your own?" he finally blurts out, unable to find the exact phrasing he wants due, no doubt, to the sudden pounding of his heart indicating a rise in blood pressure.

Stress. He is feeling stressed, that's all; it's nothing so pedestrian as panic or fear, he tells himself as he awaits her response.

She continues to stare at him for a long pair of minutes, mouth agape until she slowly closes it, then gropes behind her for the nearest chair and drops heavily into it.

When she finally collects herself enough to speak, her words do nothing to reassure him. "Sherlock, you've never even...I didn't think you _wanted_ children!"

"Of course I don't," he replies without thinking, then sees the tears welling in her eyes, watches as she jumps to her feet and rushes out of the room.

Heart sinking, he lowers himself slowly into the chair she's just vacated. Dear. God. She'd kept silent because of his feelings, not her own. How could he have missed it?

More importantly, how can he fix this? They have been in a committed relationship for less than two years, living together for only one of those years, and he has learned through painful experience that Molly running off like that requires one of two responses – either follow and comfort or leave her alone until she is ready to speak to him again.

Unfortunately, what still leaves him baffled is telling the difference between when the first response is merited and when the second is the better choice. So he does what he always does under such circumstances: he reaches for his mobile and texts John.

_Molly upset, what should I do? SH_

The response comes quickly: _Depends. What did you do to upset her? JW_

He fires back a quick explanation of what happened, and John's response is a little slower in coming this time.

Sherlock paces as he waits, glancing frequently at the bedroom door, which Molly slammed shut behind her. It is useless as a clue; she slams the door whether she wants him to follow her or not, another lesson painfully learned.

Finally John responds, and it is clear he has taken the time to consult with Mary before doing so.

_You go to her on bended knee and beg her forgiveness, you insensitive git. Even if you don't want children, if she does – and it sounds like she does – and you want her to stay in your life, then you'd better be prepared to change your mind. Publicly, loudly, and frequently, where she can hear you. Work on looking sincere, if you can manage that much._

Not. Helpful.

Sherlock snorts and tosses the mobile onto the kitchen table, then paces back into the sitting room and considers his options.

Fortunately Molly chooses that moment to open the bedroom door and shuffle back into the sitting room, eyes red, a tissue clutched in one hand. "Sorry," she says, and something clicks in Sherlock's mind as he rushes to her side and takes her in his arms.

"No, I'm the one who should be telling you that," he corrects her gently as her head comes to rest on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his chin. "It's something we should have discussed, and not something I should have made assumptions about."

"Sherlock, it's...it's all right," Molly insists, although he knows that, no, it isn't, actually. She looks up at him and gives him a watery smile. "I should have said something as well, but I just assumed...that you knew. That you'd already deduced it."

This discussion needs to be held while they are seated, so he brings her over to the sofa and sits her on his lap, where he can most easily keep his arms around her and meet her eyes without having to duck his head. "Molly," he says, keeping his voice as gentle and (though he loathes the word) loving as he can, "clearly we need to discuss this."

She shakes her head; her eyes are sad and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach he is certain he knows what she is about to say. "No, Sherlock, we don't. I said it was all right and," she takes a deep breath, "I meant it. You don't want children, and it wouldn't be fair to bring a child into our relationship if it's just you humoring me. No child deserves that, a parent that doesn't want it."

Memories of his own childhood flash through his mind; his father's disdain for both him and Mycroft, the way he treated them both making it quite clear, even if the man hadn't come right out and said so, that he'd never wanted children. How hard it was on Mummy – but how fiercely she'd loved them.

Just as fiercely as Molly will love their own children, should they ever have them.

With that realization, striking with the power of a true epiphany, all his reasons for not wanting children suddenly seem very petty, very selfish – and very, very easy to overcome. "If we have children, Molly, you will never have to worry that their father doesn't love them," he tells her, and this time there is no need to remind himself to be gentle, to keep his voice at a soothing register. It comes quite naturally, just as naturally as the words themselves. "I would say I need more time to adjust my thinking," he adds, not bothering to hide his self-directed wonder at how sincerely he means what he is saying, "but I appear to have already done so." Then he smiles at her, a full-on, teeth-baring grin of pure delight. "You know, Molly, I really do think it would be a marvelous idea! How many do you want? When should we start?"

Molly's utter shock at his volte-face is clear, and Sherlock isn't above taking ruthless advantage of such situations. He swoops in for a kiss, waiting with a fair imitation of patience for her to return the kiss. She is easily lifted into his arms and they are halfway to the bedroom before she comes out of her daze and presses a hand to his chest. "Wait, Sherlock, what are you..."

He grins at her. "Isn't it obvious, Molly?" He tuts with mock disappointment. "I know your mind is usually sharper than this, and you don't even have the excuse that hormones are interfering with your thought processes." He continues walking, then deposits her on the bed, not bothering to shut the door behind them; no one is going to walk in on them.

Molly rises to her knees, hands on her hips as she glares at Sherlock, but he can tell there is no true anger behind her expression; if anything, her eyes are shining with suppressed mirth. "Sherlock Holmes, are you telling me that, not only have you decided you want to have children, but you want to have them _right now_?"

He pauses in the process of removing his clothing, hands on the buttons of his royal blue shirt, and gives her a frown that is about as legitimate as her glare, which is rapidly morphing into an appreciative smile. "Molly Hooper, you know very well that once I've made up my mind to do something, I rarely allow any delays – and I certainly don't allow anything to get in my way." He makes a show of stalking over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, opening the shallow drawer, picking up the box of condoms and dropping them into the dustbin.

It is a symbolic gesture at best; Molly is also on birth control pills and there is no way she can become pregnant before they are out of her system and she's experienced her next menstrual cycle, but he wants to make himself perfectly clear on this matter: he has changed his mind, come round to her way of thinking, and is not about to back out.

Then he finishes removing his clothing, leaving it to lie on the bedroom floor, kneels on the bed and proceeds to assist Molly, who is moving far too slowly for his liking, in removing hers as well.

They make love, not bothering to turn down the duvet or shut the window blinds, and when they are finished, both more than satisfied, he holds her in his arms and promises to be the best father he can be – and makes her promise to take him to task if she feels he is falling down on the job.

"It's a deal," she murmurs sleepily against his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there before settling herself more comfortably against him and hauling part of the duvet up to cover them. "But," she adds, pulling his head down so they are eye-to-eye, "don't think I've forgotten about the baby shower. We," she points to him and to herself several times to make her point, "are both going."

Then she snuggles down and closes her eyes and pretends not to hear his grumbles of protest.


	3. Cherry Shorts

**Cherry Shorts**

_A/N: This is inspired, not by another writer, alas, but by a pair of actual shorts I saw in a store this weekend when taking my teenaged daughter and her friends to the mall. Hot Topic owns the shorts, and we all know who owns the characters – and it ain't me. Enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock debated using his key or knocking as he approached the door to Molly's flat. He'd been back from the dead for two weeks now and still wasn't sure what the new rules were regarding their relationship. It was easier fitting himself back into the lives of those who'd truly believed him dead, he was finding, than deducing how to behave with the one person (well, one of two but the only one that really mattered, since his relationship with Mycroft hadn't really been affected one way or another by his fall) who'd known he was actually alive the entire two years he was gone.

The past two weeks had been rather too full for him and Molly to sort things out, what with debriefings and press conferences (both events being equally loathsome in his mind) and emotional meetings with John Watson (one punch, one lengthy hug, a great deal of swearing and sobbing and declarations of if-you-ever-do-anything-like-that-agains) and DI Lestrade (very similar to the meeting with John, although less hugging and far more swearing and threatening) and Mrs. Hudson (no swearing, no hitting, but even more hugging and crying).

During all that commotion and uproar, Molly had remained physically in the background, her own part left anonymous by her own request, yet just as firmly in the forefront of his thoughts.

He'd been in and out of her flat frequently during his time away from the world of the living; her bathroom sink had been stained on several occasions with varying shades of hair dye, to the point where she joked that she'd lose her deposit if the flat hadn't been one she'd inherited from a great-aunt. He'd slept in her guest bed most nights, but the last night before he'd gone to (successfully) hunt down and capture Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's most elusive henchman and assassin, he'd slept in her bed. With her.

A faint smile ghosted his lips as he remembered that particular night. He called it sleeping but not much sleeping had actually taken place. That had been two months ago. After Moran was successfully bagged and taken off by Mycroft's men, he'd gone straight to Molly's, used his key and spent the rest of that night in her arms, desperate to prove to her that their previous night together hadn't been the one-off she'd so bluntly told him she thought it was.

_"Sherlock, it's all right," she'd said to him early the next morning, as he prepared to leave, not knowing if he'd survive this last, most deadly encounter. Moran might not have known for sure that Sherlock was alive and responsible for so much of the havoc that had been wreaked on Moriarty's criminal empire for the past two years, but he suspected. Sherlock would have to be on his toes._

_He'd paused in the midst of donning a pair of faded blue jeans and squinted at her in confusion; what was she going on about?_

_She'd elaborated as soon as she has his full attention. "It's all right about, this," she'd said, waving a hand to indicate her still-naked self under the duvet, nodding at him for extra emphasis in case he didn't get what she was saying. "I don't expect anything more, you don't have to worry about me being all weird once you've taken care of this last bit and come home for real."_

_She'd smiled, a sad smile, but it was sincere. He'd gotten much more adept at reading her emotions and could tell that she meant every word she said._

_He hadn't quite known how to respond, however; no matter how adept he'd grown at reading _her_ emotions his own sometimes tripped him up. All he'd done at the time was nod, clear his throat and say something vague about not knowing what the future would bring. Then he'd surprised them both by giving her a passionate kiss goodbye before exiting via her bedroom window and down the fire escape ladder._

Fast forward to two weeks ago, when he'd entered her flat via that same means. There was a security alarm on the window that he'd installed himself and was the sole owner (besides Molly, of course) to the code for. It had been close to the middle of the night, she'd been sleeping, and he'd managed to strip off all of his clothing before she so much as stirred in her sleep. His hand over her mouth had frightened her, but his voice telling her it was just him and it was over and Moran was in custody and he was going to reveal himself to the world via Mycroft and New Scotland Yard in the morning and could he please have this one last night alone with her – that had calmed her instantly and she'd opened up the duvet and slid over and he'd made love to her with a desperation that surpassed their first time together by a magnitude of ten, a hundred, possibly even a thousand.

He'd been forced to slip away while she was still sleeping when his mobile had beeped, alerting him to the fact that Mycroft was ready for him – NOW – but he'd left her a scribbled note promising to return as soon as everything was sorted.

That, however, had been then. This was now. Everything was sorted – everything except the two of them. And he still hesitated on her doorstep, fiddling with the damned key, wondering if he should use it or knock – or possibly go round the back and climb in through the bedroom window for old times' sake.

Before he could come to any kind of a decision, however, it was taken out of his hands as Molly's door opened and the woman herself stood in front of him, blinking in surprise. "Oh! Sherlock, I didn't know you...are you all...do you want to...I was painting the bathroom," she finished, with a self-conscious glance down at herself.

He sucked in a breath at the sight of her: hair in a messy bun on top of her head, wearing a paint-splattered red tank top and a pair of white cut-off shorts embroidered with cheerful red cherries on one pocket. She was holding a paint brush (covered in white paint) in one hand and was barefoot. There was a single dot of white paint on the end of her nose.

She looked absolutely adorable.

"I was just going down to the utility room," she explained, gesturing vaguely with the paint brush toward the hall in which he remained standing, feeling rooted to the spot as his eyes zeroed in on that dot of paint.

She reached up with her free hand to automatically rub whatever it was he was staring at away, but he just as automatically shot his hand out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "I've missed you," he said, his voice husky, all concerns about how to interact with her vanished as he pulled her into his arms for a passionate, long overdue kiss.

She squeaked in surprise as he pulled her close, trying to murmur a protest about his suit getting ruined, but he ignored her and eventually she stopped trying to protest and just melted into his embrace. Good. He'd missed this, hadn't realized how much he'd missed being with her, having her in his arms – and it had only been two weeks, for God's sake; he'd lived his entire life without her, without kissing and sex, so why did he feel so impatient for it now?

Because it was Molly, of course, the emotional part of his mind retorted. Logic and self-restraint be hanged; he wanted her, and he wanted her NOW.

He walked her backwards into the flat. Music was playing distantly, most likely she had her MP3 player resting on the bathroom sink. He didn't recognize the song, nor did he care what it was. He shut the door with his foot, never breaking the kiss, at least until he accidentally bumped her into the low coffee table sat in front of her sofa. She "ouched" and pulled her head away from his.

"Sorry," he mumbled, trying to move her around the blasted piece of furniture and toward her bedroom, which had of course been his goal this entire time.

She stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Sherlock, what—what are you—wait!" she finally said, clearly annoyed with herself for a return to her stuttering – and equally as annoyed and confused by his actions.

He stopped trying to move her, but refused to remove his hands from around her waist as he waited for her to say whatever it was she intended to say.

"Sherlock, I'm glad to see you," she began.

"I'm glad to see you as well," he replied, his voice a soft rumble, lips quirked up in a smile. "What I would like to do is show you glad I am to see you, if you don't mind."

Her own lips were struggling to suppress a smile, he noted complacently. And her heart was thundering in her chest, as the poets and romance writers would no doubt put it. Good. She still wanted him as much as she ever had. So why the delays? Oh, of course, she needed some kind of declaration from him as to intent...and that was where his thought processes stumbled.

What did he want from her, aside from the obvious?

When she asked that very question, he took a moment before replying, pleased that she'd asked it without stuttering or hesitating – and that she'd kept her hand, the one without the paintbrush, on his shoulder the entire time. "I want things to continue on as they have been – that is to say," he clarified, forestalling the objection he saw gathering on her lips, "I would like our relationship to...continue to progress. I didn't mean to imply that I simply wanted it to remain on a simply sexual level." Some devil prompted him to add, "Although that part is certainly one of the more pleasurable aspects our our interactions to date."

Molly arched an eyebrow at him, although the smile she'd been struggling to suppress was revealing itself, dimple by dimple. "Only _one_ of the more pleasurable aspects?" she asked, her own voice a shade deeper than usual. She dropped the paintbrush onto the newspaper conveniently sitting on her coffee table and reached up to run her white-speckled fingers along his neck and ear.

Sherlock started to speak, cleared his suddenly dry throat, then managed to unstick the words. "Well, I do enjoy working with you in the lab at St. Bart's," he admitted. "Whenever you get deeply involved in the work, you tend to forget who you're working with and act much less self-consciously around me. I did notice that, you know."

"Oh?" she asked, stepping closer to him and running her second hand from his shoulder up to his hair, tugging slightly at the locks curling over the back of his head, bringing his face closer to hers. "Is there anything else you noticed?"

"Your predilection for wearing fruit on your clothing...at first it was a bit...cloying," he confessed, his voice a near growl as he pulled her more firmly against his body. In case she needed a demonstration of exactly how aroused he was at the moment.

"And now?" she breathed into his ear, letting her lips just graze the lobe.

"It's bloody adorable," he said with a huff of annoyance at having been maneuvered into such a ridiculous confession. His hands were exploring the curve of her arse; feeling the raised pattern on the back of her shorts, his annoyance vanished as quickly as it had arisen. "And quite, quite, sexy," he murmured, nibbling on her ear, teasing her as she'd been teasing him. "Cherries on your backside, Molly? I must get a closer look."

With that he spun her around, eyes confirming what his hands had already discovered: the entire back of her shorts was embroidered with clusters of cherries, matching the ones on the front left pocket.

She gave him an impish grin before deliberately leaning down, bending from the waists, legs straight as she reached down and brushed her fingers against the handle of the paintbrush. "I really should clean this up before the paint dries and it's ruined," she said, her hand making no move to actually grasp the handle she was toying with.

That did it. Enough, Sherlock decided, was enough. With a sound very like a growl he scooped her into his arms. She laughed and threw her arms around his neck as he carried her bridal-style to her bedroom. "But Sherlock, the paintbrush!" she mock-protested as they left the sitting room.

"Sod the bloody paintbrush," he snapped as they reached her bedroom door. "I'll buy you an entire box of the things. Tomorrow. Or possibly the day after. And new paint as well, since you've likely left the lid off the can," he added, smug in knowing it was a correct deduction. "The bathroom can wait; I honestly don't believe I can."

Then he was kissing her again, her lips soft and sweet against his as they reached her bed. He knelt on the edge, deposited her carefully in the middle, then gave in and kissed the dot of paint on the tip of her nose before removing his clothing.

She knelt up, drawing the edges of the tank top over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, which he'd already deduced, and the sight of her breasts only served to entice him into leaning forward to drawing each of her nipples in turn into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and sucking lightly while she grasped his head and moaned her appreciation.

Shortly thereafter he was the one making the appreciative moans as she toppled him onto his back, dipped her head to his cock and drew it into her mouth, lips and tongue working to drive him absolutely mad as he bucked his hips and tried not to ram himself down her throat. One hand worked the base of his cock, meeting the edge of her lips as she moved in opposition to herself, and his eyes slammed shut at the pure pleasure he was feeling. Nothing else short-circuited his thought processes quite like sex; how had he lived his entire life until two months ago and not realized it was better than any drug for easing the eternal buzzing of his brain?

He pulled her away when he felt the telltale tightening in his bollocks, pushed her onto her back and busied himself returning the favor, giving himself time to recover a bit so that when he finally did push himself into her, he wouldn't finish before he'd well begun.

Oral sex was immensely satisfying, both in the receiving and in the giving, he'd discovered. Molly had shown him the basics during their second encounter and he'd once again proven to his own satisfaction – and most definitely to hers – that he was, as in almost everything he turned a hand to, an apt if not gifted student.

His tongue grazed her clitoris, the sensitive bundle of nerves already pulsing and slick with her arousal. The scent was unlike anything else he'd ever experienced, primal, sour, but intoxicating in a way he could hardly describe. And the taste of her drove him wild, although experimentation had proven that she was less than enthusiastic about tasting herself on his fingers and tongue.

Ah well, no more kisses for now. Well worth the sacrifice as he heard her moan and cry his name, felt her fingers digging into his hair and scalp, her hips desperately lifting themselves from the mattress as she fought to press herself even closer against his mouth. He allowed it, willingly deepening the "kiss" as his tongue delved deeper into her folds, coaxing out the gathering wetness and drawing it back up to her clitoris. His tongue moved more and more rapidly until suddenly she gave a strangled half-scream, her entire lower body raising itself off the bed and straining against his mouth until just as suddenly she collapsed, utterly spent, completely undone.

He kissed his way up her torso, stopping to once again pay homage to her small but lovely breasts before ending with his lips against her throat and neck. He took himself in hand, guiding himself between her legs and into her welcoming wetness. She was still sensitive, still quivering from the aftershocks of her orgasm, so he went slowly, pressing himself deep inside her and then resting there, holding himself above her by resting on his elbows, waiting for her to make the next move.

As he could have predicted, it wasn't long in coming. She raised and lowered her hips, hands pressing firmly against his backside as she gasped out: "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, don't stop now!" Then she lifted her left leg and wound it around his waist and he was as incapable of stopping himself from pounding into her with a frantic rhythm as he would have been at stopping the rain from falling during a thunderstorm.

When he'd reached his peak and was sliding down the other side, Molly gasping and writhing right along with him, he collapsed against her for a long, comfortable moment before reluctantly rolling off her and lying on his back by her side. The woman did need to keep breathing, after all.

A few minutes later, after the necessary clean-up had been performed, they were back in her bed, with her head on his chest and his arm wrapped firmly around her. "So," she said after pressing a kiss to his chest. "I guess you liked the shorts."

"The shorts, certainly, but more the woman wearing them," he replied, dropping a kiss to the top of her forehead. "Molly," he added after a moment's consideration, "I did mean what I said about wanting our relationship to progress. I'm not fond of the terms 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend,' but if labels must be applied then I'm not averse to us calling each other by those words. If that's what you want," he remembered to add, just before the voice of John Watson could mentally berate him.

"Of course I want that, Sherlock," Molly replied, her voice a sleepy murmur as she draped an arm more comfortably across his chest. "I love you. But you already knew that, didn't you."

He'd stopped breathing. Because no, he hadn't already known that. Oh, he knew she had feelings for him, that she cared for him and worried about him and wanted him, but love? It was so far out of his comfort zone that he hadn't even allowed himself to consider the depth of her emotions.

Or of his. Although it had started out with him simply giving in to a sexual attraction he'd only recently begun to allow himself to feel, he'd also been forced to admit to himself that it wasn't simply the physical needs of the body he craved from her. He'd told her that she counted and he'd always trusted her; why had it taken him so long to understand _why_ he'd felt that way?

They were only words; they shouldn't be so difficult to form in his mind, to allow on his tongue and through his lips, but he found himself in the curious position of not knowing how best to express himself.

_Stop overthinking it, _he ordered himself._ Just say the words you're feeling. Let her know how much she means to you._

So he did. Being Sherlock Holmes, however, he did it in a way she couldn't have foreseen.

"Let the flat, Molly, and move in with me. I don't want to have to split my time between here and there, and my flat's larger. Mrs. Hudson won't mind Toby, she's fond of cats."

Molly lifted her head up in order to stare at him, completely stunned and unable to respond for a long moment. When she did speak, however, he was relieved to see that she understood him completely. A smile blossomed across her face, lighting up her brown eyes until the virtually sparkled. "Yes, Sherlock. Of course. Whenever you want."

"Tomorrow," he said firmly, settling her back into his embrace. "The day after at the latest, but I don't want to have to deal with packing and movers until after we've had the entire night to ourselves."

Just as Molly started to drift off to sleep, she heard him murmur: "And in case I didn't make myself clear, I love you too, Molly Hooper."


	4. A Bagful of Toes

**A Bagful of Toes**

_A/N: This is inspired by every Sherlock writer who's ever referred to a bagful of toes in their story – and believe me, there are more of them out there than you think! Sometimes they're disguised as a cooler full of feet, but the idea is certainly the same. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Sherlock! What the hell is this?!"

Molly Hooper was standing in her kitchen, staring at the open door of her refrigerator. Sherlock Holmes, supposedly dead consulting detective, was sitting cross-legged on her sofa, with her computer on his lap, tapping away at the keys while she shouted at him.

"It's your refrigerator, Molly, it's been here as long as you've been letting this flat," he replied without looking up. If Molly had chanced to look over at him, she might have seen the small smile fighting to break across his lips, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes, but she had eyes for nothing but the plastic hazardous materials bag sitting on her shelf next to the milk and eggs.

With an exasperated huff she snatched the bag up, holding it delicately pinched between thumb and forefinger, arm held stiffly in front of her body, nose scrunched in disgust as she marched over to her small sitting room, divided from the kitchen only by a bar-style counter and stools. Sherlock watched her from the corner of his eye, absently noting that she looked rather adorable when annoyed and aghast as she currently was, considering the contents of the bag she held so gingerly in her fingers.

She stopped directly in front of Sherlock and shook the bag under his nose. "Sherlock!" she said again, voice still pitched unnaturally high. "What. Is. THIS?" The last work was practically shrieked, causing him to wince at the volume, so close to his sensitive ears.

He finally deigned to look up, still fighting the smile. "It appears to be a bagful of toes, Molly," he said after a moment spent pretending to study the contents of the plastic container she was holding. He tilted his head to the side and squinted up at her in mock-confusion. "Surely you've seen a bagful of toes before."

She rolled her eyes, still holding the bag at arm's length in front of his face. "Yes, Sherlock," she replied in a tone of exaggerated patience. "I've seen a bagful of toes before. In fact," she continued, voice once again rising as her exasperation and annoyance surged upwards, "I've seen _this_ bagful of toes before. In the storage freezer at St. Bart's. They belong to Mr. Lewis, who was cremated today. _Without his toes!"_ Once again her words came out in a shriek, and once again Sherlock winced.

He closed the laptop as he did, setting it aside and inching gingerly out from beneath Molly's hand and its distasteful – unless one had a good reason for nicking them, as he had – contents. "Yes, Molly, he was cremated today without his toes. I doubt very much his family will notice the miniscule difference in weight when they're given the urn containing his remains, considering none of them will know how much it's supposed to…"

She shook the bag in his face; he reared his head back, wary eyes on the seal. He hadn't opened it yet, so it was unlikely he was about to have one of Mr. Lewis' toes lodged up his nostril, but it never hurt to be careful. Especially when a certain enraged pathologist had her dander up, as she certainly did now.

He loved riling Molly up this way, getting her worked up over something trivial. But her next words caused him to rethink that, as she lowered her hand to her side and fixed her gaze on him, all signs of incipient hysteria immediately replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. "Sherlock, you went to St. Bart's and nicked these, didn't you." She didn't wait for his nod before whispering in anguished tones: "What if you'd been caught? You're supposed to be d-dead, what if someone recognized you? Your cover would be blown and three people could die!"

Oh. He hadn't thought of that…well, actually, he had, which was why he'd disguised himself with extra care before venturing into the hospital morgue late last night while Molly slept. But he hadn't thought about how it would upset and worry her to know that he'd taken such a risk, and for such an admittedly trivial reason.

He'd nicked the bag of toes after Mr. Lewis' body had already been wheeled away for cremation, which meant no one would notice, since they were already supposed to be gone. He'd done so out of boredom; nothing was happening at the moment, he was stuck waiting for several carefully planned events to come to a boil, and had decided to conduct an experiment he'd dreamed up involving commonly found kitchen herbs and spices – more specifically, the ones Molly filled an entire cabinet with and clearly hadn't used in months if not longer.

Mostly, however, he'd brought them just to provoke a reaction out of Molly. Not, unfortunately, the reaction she'd ended at, although he'd derived a great deal of amusement from her first reaction.

Damage control was required. All these thoughts flickered through his mind in no more than an eyeblink, before his expression turned contrite and he found himself wiping away her sudden tears with his thumbs.

That last bit startled him almost as much as it appeared to startle her; he'd meant to offer an apology for worrying her, yes, but he hadn't intended to initiate physical contact…why had he done so?

It wasn't just because she was crying; he'd seen her crying before, oftentimes knowing himself to be the cause and had left her to deal with her emotions on her own, uncomfortable with them and with the knot of pain they caused him deep in his gut. Better to ignore such things, allow them to pass; to acknowledge them was to open the door to that most despised of emotions, the antithesis of intellect: _sentiment_.

So why was he the one opening the door, then? Molly was clearly ready to leave the room, bringing her tears and emotionalism with her, leaving him to his deductions and plans and research.

Oh. Perhaps the answer was to be found in the way his heart was suddenly hammering in his chest, breath hitching as his eyes locked with hers, drowning in chocolatey brown velvet, seeming suddenly enormous in her face. _He_ was the one having an emotional reaction for once; well, she certainly was as well, but for the first time in a very long time her reaction had triggered something rather primal in him.

He leaned in and kissed her. Not a chaste peck on the cheek as he'd offered her that unfortunate Christmas Eve when he'd deduced her to such devastating effect. No, this was a proper kiss, a romantic kiss, even, straight on the lips and lingering for quite some time as his hands somehow found themselves cupped around her chin, thumbs still lightly pressed to her cheeks.

The tears had stopped; good. Not his primary goal, but a satisfactory secondary effect. She pulled back – not good; he frowned and ducked his head forward but her hand was between them, resting against his lips as her own mouth turned downward. "Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?"

"Kissing you," was his impatient reply. Wasn't it obvious? Of course it was, stupid of him to answer that way when clearly she wasn't asking about his actions, but rather about the intent behind them.

Before he could formulate the proper response, however, she'd pulled back even further, hands on hips, the bag of toes dangling by her thigh, forgotten in light of the new situation he'd thrust upon her. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to," he replied. Her frown deepened, which he interpreted to mean she either didn't want him to kiss her – unlikely in the extreme – or else she didn't understand and required further elucidation. "Molly, I've been in your flat for two weeks now, ample time for me to observe you outside of the work environment, which is where we've mainly interacted up until now, agreed?"

She nodded, her expression hovering between wary and worried; her body tensed just the slightest bit, as if she were preparing herself for him to say something – how had she put it that Christmas? – oh yes, as if bracing herself for him to say _such terrible, awful things_. Perhaps she expected him to tell her it was an experiment, or that he was bored and needed some way to pass the time?

Neither was true. The truth was something he was going to have a difficult time admitting to, and he anticipated to have to overcome a great deal of skepticism on her part before she believed him.

Still, it was true, what he was about to say, and (except for certain very specific circumstances, under which this encounter most definitely did _not_ fall) Sherlock Holmes was ruthless when it came to telling the truth, no matter the consequences to others – or to himself. "I wanted to kiss you because you don't simply _count_, Molly; I don't just _trust_ you. What I feel for you runs…quite a bit deeper, actually."

He trusted her to understand what he couldn't quite bring himself to say after all; surprising, that, since he'd never faltered in the past for words when the truth was plain to be seen. Perhaps he was testing her, somehow? Requiring her to deduce him when he'd already learned so much about her?

Enough to make him feel…more than friendship. More than he'd felt for anyone else in his life, including – rumors and innuendo notwithstanding – John Watson.

He watched while she processed what he'd just almost-admitted to, a smile blossoming on her lips as she reached the correct conclusion. The sound of a bagful of toes dropping to the floor was no distraction at all as she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him quite a bit more thoroughly than he'd just kissed her, much to his not-so-secret delight.

He was equally delighted when she wasted no more time on questions or surplus body parts, practically dragging him to her bedroom.

Which, he was just beginning to realize, was where he'd wanted her to take him ever since his arrival in her flat two weeks previous. The guest bedroom was nice, but he suspected Molly's bed would be a great deal nicer.

Especially as he intended to spend very little time actually sleeping in it.


	5. Could I Have This Dance

**Could I Have This Dance (For the Rest of My Life)**

_A/N: Inspired by all the lovely fics where Molly and Sherlock dance at John and Mary's wedding. My take on same. Warning: Unabashedly soppy and romantic, especially the ending. Song title owned by the lovely and talented Ann Murray, Sherlock universe owned by BBC & Moftiss although I wish it were mine. Oh, and one tiny confession: John's opinion of Taylor Swift? It's actually mine._

* * *

Molly Hooper and Mary Watson do not exactly hit it off from the start. Where Molly is shy, reserved, a bit gruesome in her sense of humor when she allows it to show at all, Mary is vivacious, outgoing, and most of all, assertive. She comes from a large family – two sisters and two brothers – where Molly is an only child. Her parents are still living where Molly's have been gone since she was a child and at uni, respectively (she never really knew her mother, sadly, but her father is someone she still misses daily). Mary is blunt where Molly is circumspect, loud where Molly is quiet, and openly flirtatious with her husband-to-be where Molly has always felt public displays of affection were a bit gauche. Mostly, she admits to herself, because she's rarely found herself in a position to judge from the inside out, as it were, rather than from the outside in.

Another reason she and Mary don't immediately become BFF's, as she knows the younger crowd would put it, is because frankly she feels like a third wheel whenever they get together for drinks or the occasional dinner. John always encourages her to bring a date, she always murmurs something along the lines of "yes, of course" and always ends up coming alone.

Because one thing Molly Hooper does quite badly is date. Every man she's ever set her cap at (she loves that term, no matter how old fashioned, which is undoubtedly another reason she's still alone at the ripe old age of 32) turns out to be married (Greg Lestrade, she had such a crush on him, they dated once when he and his wife were separated, what a disaster), emotionally unavailable (Sherlock Holmes, believed at this point in time to still be dead by all but her and his brother Mycroft), gay (Jim from IT), or a psychopathic killer (reference Jim from IT, only call him Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind and currently dead-for-real-dead, thank God).

In spite of their less-than-auspicious start, Molly still finds herself one of Mary's bridesmaids – along with Mary's two sisters, three best college mates and the Matron of Honor, John's sister Harry (no longer drinking, her life solidly back together ever since her brother nearly fell apart during Sherlock's two-year hiatus as a dead man). She marvels at how this came about as she fidgets with the halter-style top of her dress and desperately refrains from fiddling with her curly, beribboned updo as she stares at herself in the mirror.

The two of them tried very hard to reach this point, but Molly knows it isn't simply a concession to John that has landed her in this position, one of the Chosen Few, as they laughingly refer to themselves (Harry, of course, is the Anointed One and her two adorable daughters, the flower girls, have given themselves the lofty titles of Bearer of the Petals – Donna, the ten-year-old's choice – and Scatterer of the Pretty White and Yellow Rose Petals That Aunt Mary Gave Us To Carry Down the Aisle – Polly Watson is seven and extremely verbose, to put it mildly). No, Molly is here because she and Mary finally found something to bond over during a lunch together, the first one where John had been unable to join them.

It isn't work; Mary is a Sociology professor at Oxford who couldn't tell one end of a scalpel from another if it wasn't for the fact that she'd cut herself if she tried to hold it incorrectly. She loves dogs, where Molly has always been a cat person. She is always flawlessly put together, whereas Molly couldn't care two figs about fashion. The list of Things Molly and Mary Don't Have In Common goes on and on, and Molly despairs of finding even one single thing to talk to this woman about – besides John and the believed-to-be-dead Sherlock, whom Mary hears more than enough about from her fiancée – until fate intervenes in the form of an unexpected ring of Molly's mobile.

She remembers how her face flamed as Carrie Underwood's voice singing "Before He Cheats" blared from her jacket pocket; she'd forgotten to turn down the ringtone after entering the restaurant. She fumbles it out and glances at the caller ID; it is a coworker, so she excuses herself with an embarrassed mumble and heads outside to answer the call. It isn't an emergency after all, so after reassuring Meena that yes, she'll finish up the paperwork on Mr. Davies (heart attack, nothing suspicious in spite of his sister's insistence that his wife must have poisoned him) as soon as she returns from lunch.

Mary had brushed off her apologies, then surprised Molly by demanding why she'd chosen that particular ringtone. When Molly had admitted to her not-so-secret love of American country-pop crossover music – current and even the older stuff from the late 1970s and early 1980s – Mary had revealed her own passion for the same genre, and a lifelong friendship was born.

It is this love that nearly derails Mary's love for John Watson. Two weeks before the wedding Molly meets them for lunch, only to find the two of them arguing over the music they will dance their first dance as husband and wife to. John is insisting rather loudly that it has to be the first song they ever danced to – "Always and Forever" by Luther Vandross, more American music and a very lovely song – while Mary is almost tearfully declaring that it has to be "Could I Have This Dance For The Rest Of My Life" by Ann Murray.

The problem isn't that they can't agree; the problem, as it turns out, is that John absolutely hates American country-pop crossover music (he is especially vehement about his hatred for Taylor Swift, whom he declares to be a "breathy, overhyped, no talent bit of nothing."

It is at this point that Molly finally decides to intervene, seeing quite clearly that both John and Mary are getting a bit too worked up over such a ridiculous thing – and she has learned to read Mary well enough to recognize when the words "If that's how you feel, John Watson, then the wedding is off!" forming on her friend's lips.

She cuts them off – the words, not the lips – by offering a loud, cheerful, "Hello you two! Sorry I'm late! What's all the fuss?" as if she hasn't been standing behind them for several minutes, debating on whether or not she should do something or just leave them to it. It is another difference between herself and Mary; where Molly would rather cut off her own lips (for real this time) than start a fight in public, Mary is absolutely unafraid to do so.

It takes a bit of doing, but she manages to calm them both down and get them to understand how ridiculous they are being. John admits to overreacting, Mary admits to an attack of nerves, glasses of wine help all three relax a bit – and then Sherlock nearly destroys the peace by strolling up to them and deducing the entire argument, which he missed by being late to the lunch.

Ah, Sherlock. Molly is always happy to see him, always has a girlish thrill at the sight of him, always warms from the inside out – but this time, this one time, she could gladly smash her wineglass over his head, or at least dash the dregs into his snarky (but still gorgeous) face. She amazes herself by being the one to get him to shut up and let the détente have time to settle, by threatening to do exactly as she has imagined and holding her wine glass in front of his face and saying: "One more word, Sherlock, just one more, and I swear I will pour this on your lap!"

Sherlock has been back from the dead for only two months at this point, but this is the first time Molly has allowed him to see her temper, the one he always seems to squash just by his mere presence and larger-than-life personality. Even when he slept on her sofa during the first two weeks of his being-deadness and drove her spare with his twitchiness and outbursts of anger she'd kept her own temper well under control, not quite cowed but certainly understanding that it wasn't exactly the easiest of times for him.

She certainly hadn't revealed her temper to him after his return, when he'd nearly scared the life out of her in the St. Bart's locker room. All she'd done was hug him warmly, welcome him home and listen as he gave her the recap version of his exciting return to the world of the living (John's blog contained a great deal more detail and made for a very entertaining read). Things between them had certainly become more comfortable since his admission that she counted and that he'd always trusted her, but he was clearly taken aback by not only her threat but by the seriousness in her eyes when she made it.

That confrontation, mild though it was, had been the very thing Mary and John needed to return fully to their senses, find a way to laugh about their differences in opinion when it came to music, and agree to dance to both songs – John's choice for first dance, Mary's choice for the dance reserved for the wedding party as a group.

Since that day Molly has occasionally caught Sherlock eyeing her as if she were an interesting specimen he'd noticed under his microscope, but he always turns away when she gives him a questioning glance in return.

And now they are both in the wedding party; he as John's best man and she as one of the bridesm...er, Chosen Ones. She giggles a bit at the silly name Mary's sister Annie has christened them with, giggles a bit more as she spots John's adorable nieces prancing about in their white and yellow flower girl dresses (so much easier to call them that than by their own preferred monikers), then schools her face into a serious expression as she catches an unexpected glimpse of a male profile in the mirror – a very familiar, very handsome male profile at that.

What on Earth is Sherlock doing in the bride's dressing rooms? Is he looking for her, has a case come up…oh. No, he was walking over to John's sister, whispering something in her ear. Harry gave him a startled look, glanced over at Molly, grinned, whispered something back to Sherlock, nodding the entire time…

…and Molly quickly turned herself away, face flushing. She refuses to speculate on what she has just witnessed, resolutely keeping herself away from Harry as Sherlock leaves the room as quickly and quietly as he entered. She will not ask; if it is something she needs to know, Harry will tell her. Or Sherlock will.

Neither of them, however, speak to her before the ceremony, at least not about why they were whispering and looking at her. She feels uncomfortably like she did in school, when some of the popular girls decided to make her life a living hell by talking about her – not so much behind her back as simply behind their own hands, their pretty, mean eyes on her the entire time. Letting her know that yes, they were discussing her – and not in a good way.

The ceremony begins and she puts such ridiculous thoughts from her mind. Harry whispers that she looks lovely, winks, and takes her place at the head of the line. Molly feels a bit better after that, straightens her spine confidently and takes her place by Mary's brother Dan's side as the music announcing their imminent march down the aisle begins.

She has forgotten all about Sherlock's whispered conversation with Harry by the time they leave the church and arrive at the hotel where the reception is taking place. She is dreamily watching John and Mary sway together to their chosen song, waiting for the music to end and the next song to begin when she first becomes aware that the man standing next to her is no longer Dan Morstan but Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock!" she hisses as she belatedly recognizes his lean form – so dazzling in the black tux, even if his tie is slightly askew – next to hers. "What are you doing? The next song is about to begin, you're supposed to be dancing with Harry!" Because of course the Best Man and Matron of Honor always dance together, just as each bridesmaid is to dance with the groomsman who escorted her down the aisle.

"Change of plans," Sherlock replies breezily, just as the first song ends and the second begins. The wedding party enters the dance floor even as the other guests are clapping and cheering the bridal couple; Sherlock grabs her hand and gently tugs, and suddenly Molly finds herself in his arms, dancing to the strains of the very song John and Mary had been arguing about two weeks ago.

Molly feels her face flushing and concentrates very hard on not stumbling, not stepping on Sherlock's feet – and, most importantly, not fainting. Because her head is swimming dizzily whilst simultaneously feeling somewhat like a balloon on a string, not really attached to her body, which fortunately manages to follow Sherlock's lead in spite of her mental absence.

When she manages to get control of her giddiness, she finds Sherlock gazing down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She takes a chance and murmurs the question that has been buzzing through her mind ever since he took her hand. "Why? Why did you switch out with Dan? Is something wrong?"

He tuts and holds her just a bit closer as they sway to the music. "No, Molly, nothing's wrong. In fact, I'd say everything's right for a change, wouldn't you? Or did you not want to dance with me tonight?"

Her flush deepens and she drops her gaze. Well, it's no secret how she feels about Sherlock; even he finally got the message that horrible Christmas two years ago. She's long since resigned herself to never having more than a friendship with him, so why is he teasing her about it now, at John's wedding of all places?

She would suspect liquor were involved if it weren't for the fact that she knows he rarely indulges and certainly never over-indulges. She suspects that's due to his past drug use, which he confessed to her before she helped him "kill" himself, since the faint white scars on the insides of his elbows would have been impossible for her to miss when she removed his shirt in order to dress the corpse that would act as his body double. She would even suspect drugs were involved tonight if it wasn't for the fact that his eyes are clear, his hand warm on hers, his pulse…

Well. She can see his pulse in his throat since he has loosened the tie even further and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, and it looks rather fast even considering the fact that they are dancing. It is not, however, a fast dance, which means…what, exactly, Molly isn't sure, but her own pulse is suddenly much faster and her breathing is affected as well as she continues to gaze into his pale blue eyes. "Sherlock," she says, then falls silent, unsure of what, exactly, she wants to say to him.

He saves her the effort of trying to figure out his motives by leaning closer and closer until his mouth meets hers for a tender kiss that steals what remains of her breath away. And when had both his arms come around her waist, when had hers encircled his neck – and when, she wondered through her haze of happiness, had he decided he wanted to kiss her?

The sound of cheering and applause brings her back to the present, and she gasps as she pulls away from the kiss and finds that the two of them are alone on the dance floor. The cheering and applause is all for them, with John and Mary leading the charge.

Molly knows it's physically impossible for her to go up in flames, but it certainly feels that way as she blushes from her torso to the top of her head. She steals a look at Sherlock, certain that he'll be absolutely mortified – mortified enough to never kiss her again, ever – and is astonished to see a tolerant grin on his lips. Her own lips open in an "O" of astonishment as their eyes meet...

...and she feels as if she is going to pass out when he leans down and pulls her to him for another kiss, just as deep and satisfying as the first one.

The cheers devolve into cat-calls and encouraging hoots, liberally laced with cries of "Get a room!" and "It's about bloody time!" (That last sounding suspiciously like Greg Lestrade's voice.) When Sherlock finally allows her to come up for air she is still blushing, but a vibrant smile has settled onto her lips, one that she knows will be very, very hard to displace.

Sherlock gives a mocking bow, the clapping and cat-calls finally come to an end and he draws her arm through his as he escorts her from the dance floor. Someone has taken the time to change out the name tags placed on the head table, so that Molly and Sherlock are now seated next to one another.

He holds her chair for her, she takes her seat and watches dreamily as he joins her, placing his hand over hers where it rests on the table. They are alone; the rest of the bridal party, Mary's parents included, are dancing to something a bit too disco-ish for Molly's taste, but she hardly hears it as she gazes into Sherlock's eyes. "What was that all about?" she finally asks. "I know it wasn't an experiment or just for show, right?"

Even as she says the words she hears the underlying uncertainty in her voice, because she doesn't actually know if it _was_ an experiment or just for show. This has all been rather sudden, and in her experience Sherlock generally only does "sudden" when a case is involved.

He sighs and interlaces their fingers, bringing her hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. "No, Molly, stop overthinking it. It is exactly what it appears to be – acknowledgment of my feelings for you."

He says the word "feelings" without his usual sneer, sounding utterly sincere as he gazes into her eyes. She finds herself blinking away sudden tears as her lips stutter out a timid: "O-okay."

"Molly, please don't cry," he says, sounding a bit panicky now, his grip on her hand tightening a bit. "I've known that my feelings for you had changed some time ago, but it wasn't until recently that I realized how idiotic I'd been in not sharing them with you, or acting on them." He grimaces, his eyes darting into the dancing crowd for a moment before he adds in disgruntled tones: "John might have had a hand in prompting me to finally act."

Molly knows, absolutely _knows_, that Sherlock is only admitting to that last part because if he doesn't John will take the credit anyway; she can tell by the triumphant smirk on their friend's face as he and his new wife dance by the table. Mary gives her a grin of her own and a quick thumbs up, then they are swept away by the crowd, once again leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

Holding hands. She is holding hands with Sherlock after he has kissed her twice. In public, in full view of all their friends and John and Mary's now joined families. Furthermore, she knows it is because he doesn't want her to fret and worry as she has been doing, that he wants her to understand that this change in their relationship is not some idle fancy he will drop as soon as he is bored or tired of her company.

"Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend?" she asks impulsively, grinning as he rears his head back and glowers at her.

"Do not ever refer to me in so juvenile a manner, Molly Hooper," he pronounces in deeply offended tones. "Besides," he adds before she can decide whether she wishes to continue teasing him or just let it go, "I'd much rather you called me your fiancee."

Like a conjurer, he pulls a small, royal blue velvet ring box from his pocket, opens it with a flourish and shows her the contents: a ring, a small but perfect deep blue sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds set on a white gold band. "Marry me, Molly Hooper," he says, his voice deeper than normal and a bit husky as well.

Once again tears are welling up in her eyes; once again they are tears of happiness. She does not trust her own voice, simply nods and allows him to slip the ring onto her finger. It is a perfect fit, but she would expect nothing less from Sherlock Holmes.

She is bursting to shout her happiness to the world, but recognizes that it is John and Mary's day, not hers – until she is once again proven wrong in her assumptions. The sound of applause once again fills her ears, and she looks up to see the entire wedding party gathered around them, with the rest of the guests in the background. John reaches across the table and shakes Sherlock's hand. "Good on you, mate!" he crows, smiling at Molly. "Didn't think he could pull it off, to be honest."

Oh. So this had all been planned...she is willing to bet that the whispered conversation – the one she'd assumed was Sherlock asking Harry to switch dance partners – was just to throw her off the scent, to make her think it was a spontaneous decision. Her tears turn to laughter as she once again blushes – three times in less than a half-hour, her cardio-vascular system is getting quite the workout this evening – and holds up her hand to show off the ring.

The rest of the night passes in a blur, and when it is over and John and Mary have left for their honeymoon in Ireland, she discovers that Sherlock has made plans of his own for the two of them.

Plans that she is quite happy not to share with John and Mary, or anyone else for that matter, since they mostly involve Sherlock taking off her clothes and apologizing for ever making a disparaging remark about her figure.

She is too busy kissing him to come up with a retort – and then too busy helping him remove his own clothing to worry about the past.

The future, she discovers, is full of wonderful surprises just waiting to be shared with the man she has loved for as long as she's known him.

Not the least of which is how he whispers: "I love you, Molly Hooper" before making love to her for the first time.


	6. Band of Gold

**Band of Gold **

_A/N: This has been sitting on my hard drive half-written for a while, so I thought I'd wrap it up and post it under Sherlollipops since there's no way I'll ever get around to turning it into a multi-chap fic. Dedicated to MorbidbyDefault for always encouraging even my silliest ideas; your enthusiasm is infectious! I own no one and nothing, not even the song title that inspired the story._

* * *

Molly Hooper was in the morgue.

No surprise there; it was where she worked, after all. The morgue at St. Bart's, her home away from home. The very room where she was currently seated, elbows plopped on the desk in front of her, no one else around but the silent dead.

The most interesting, startling things happened to her in the morgue

Like last night, for instance.

When Sherlock Holmes proposed to her.

She glanced around guiltily – nope, still no one there but her and the corpse of Mr. Juan Esposito, forty-six, massive heart attack under suspicious circumstances in his ex-wife's bedroom – then pulled the chain hanging around her neck from where it depended under her jumper.

The simple gold band and stunning diamond-and-sapphire engagement ring that hung from the chain twisted and spun, catching the light and sparkling like no jewels she'd ever seen up close ever had, wordlessly proclaiming their intrinsic value to anyone with eyes.

She could probably pay the rent on her flat for a year for what that pair of rings cost.

Not, she reminded herself, that it would be her flat for long. No, her lease was magically ending next week instead of two years from now, and after that she was expected to move into 221B Baker Street to take up her role as Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Widow.

She sighed. John was going to be devastated, Lestrade furious (and breaking up inside, she knew him well enough to understand his affection for the infuriating consulting detective ran nearly as deeply as that of Sherlock's flat mate), Mrs. Hudson…she buried her head in her hands, overcome by the immensity of the task she'd undertaken less than twenty-four hours ago. Mrs. Hudson was going to be more than devastated. She loved Sherlock like a son, she was going to be absolutely _shattered_ by the news of his death.

And she, Molly Elizabeth Angelica Hooper (_Holmes, mustn't forget the most important part of her name now_), was going to have to do her level best not to fall apart with the rest of them. Or at least, to only fall apart enough to cover for the fact that, of all the people who cared for Sherlock (loved him desperately), she was the only one who knew he wasn't actually dead.

Just as she was going to have to convince them that she and Sherlock had been secretly married, as their marriage certificate proclaimed (a real certificate, not a fraud or a forgery, they really _were_ married, she reminded herself through the sudden pounding of her heart), for the past two months.

A real marriage, because she had to be his next of kin. She had to be the one to make the decisions for the disposition of his "body" after his "death" (_his_ fake _death, God please make it so, not the real death he was trying to prevent and she'd been drafted into helping him prepare for_). Not Mycroft, not his parents (_still alive although living on the Continent, meeting them was going to be…no, best not think of that, now wasn't the time to fall apart_), not John; it had to be her, else the whole plan fell apart

Sherlock had made that quite clear when he'd come to her last night, scaring the shit out of her as she went to lock up for the night…

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"You're wrong, you know."

Molly gasped and whirled to face that voice in the darkness. _His_ voice, the one she'd know anywhere, under any circumstances. She clutched her belongings – purse, a few books she'd picked out for some research at home – to her chest as he continued speaking. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." He turned to look at her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." Her heart was pounding, her breath shaky, but her voice was steady. No stuttering, no gasping, just four simple words, strung together in proper order and making sense both outside and inside her head. Good. She'd known something was wrong when he'd been in the lab earlier, and couldn't help but feel…not pleased, no, never pleased…but certainly grateful that he was willing to admit it.

He turned, took two steps closer to her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

She thought her heart stopped with those words, stopped cold before picking itself back up in a fast, stuttering beat as she asked, "What do you need?"

Her response was automatic, but once her mind caught up with her voice, it approved. It was the right question to ask, even if he would probably dismiss it as obvious; why else would he say make such a confession to her unless he needed her help? If it was simple information being imparted, he wouldn't be here, standing in the dark, scaring the shit out of her; no, he'd have waited for the cold light of day if he'd told her at all. Nor did it matter why he thought such a horrible thing (_was he ill, was someone threatening him?_); no matter what the reason, she intended to help him, the same way she always had. Unconditionally.

He took another step closer as her thoughts chased themselves, as his eyes met hers, pinning her in place as securely as a bug under a magnifying glass. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am –" (_impossible!_) – "everything that _I _think I am, would you still want to help me?"

No response was needed for those ridiculous questions; of _course_ he was everything she thought he was, she'd seen him in action, seen how clearly his mind worked, his brilliant, beautiful mind. Instead, she repeated the last thing she'd asked him. The important question. "What do you need?"

He took another step closer, then another, till he was right in front of her. Then he spoke a single word that nearly broke her right there. "You."

Since he couldn't possibly mean what her silly, stupid, overheated heart and body wanted him to mean, he must need her to do something, something only she could do for him. So she asked, no stuttering, no second-guessing herself or him, just asked the question. "What do you need me to do?"

She still couldn't quite believe that he meant it, but when their eyes met and locked – _Sher_locked, she thought, semi-hysterically – she knew he meant every word.

She counted. He trusted her.

He needed her.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Of course, what he needed her to do wasn't something simple, like grabbing a bag of toes from the spare parts freezer in the morgue; it wasn't even as simple as just marrying him to ensure she could act as next of kin after the whole faking-his-death part of the plan.

There was the "I need a safe place to stay until I can get out of the country after I 'die'" part of the plan (her flat, of course; Toby would love having someone else around and Sherlock wasn't allergic so that was all right).

There was the "Help coordinate things with a group of people you've never met to ensure that John witnesses said faked death – yes, it's necessary or I wouldn't put him through such a horrible thing, surely you know me better than that – but not too closely" part.

There was the "Keep Mycroft away from my body no matter how difficult it is" part of the plan.

But before all that there was the "Come with me to the registrar's office, sign a marriage certificate, then pop over to the vicar's house so he can marry us" part of the plan.

Both the vicar and the clerk owed Sherlock their lives. Both would swear on a stack of bibles (the vicar literally) if necessary that yes, they'd performed their parts on the date indicated on the marriage license and not a minute later.

Not that anyone was likely to question it; why should they? Mycroft, Sherlock informed Molly on the way to the vicar's quiet house in the suburbs of London, would be more interested in confirming that it was a legitimate license rather than questioning the timing of it.

"Are you sure?" Molly had asked as she sat in the passenger seat of the car Sherlock had rented or stolen or borrowed (she really, truly was afraid to ask which it was – and who knew he could drive, the man seemed positively _addicted_ to cabs!).

He'd nodded, once, a sharp jerk of the head, his eyes resolutely on the road ahead of them, the parts of it revealed by the sweep of headlights and occasional streetlights.

Then he'd something remarkable, something she still marveled over nearly twenty-four hours after it had happened.

He reached down and squeezed her hand. And kept his grip on hers, twining their fingers together while Molly gaped at him, fish-faced and completely undone by the gesture.

It still sent a frisson of ridiculously sharp pleasure down her spine when she thought about it.

Almost as much, she thought with a blush, as what had happened after their wedding ceremony was complete.

Her blush deepened as her fingers continued to worry at the two rings Sherlock had placed on the third finger of her left hand in the vicar's front room at 8:30 last night. _"I, Molly Elizabeth Angelica Hooper, take thee, Sherlock Vernet Holmes, as my lawful wedded husband…"_

**The Previous Night**

As Sherlock parked the car in the vicar's gravel driveway, Molly found herself fidgeting nervously. She knew she was doing the right thing, the best thing for Sherlock's safety, but some part of her (sounding suspiciously like her mother) was whispering: _"This is crazy, Molly, you know it is. Why are you doing this?" _

Sherlock turned the key in the ignition, shutting down the engine. He'd let go her hand to do so, the first time he'd released his grip on her fingers since they'd left the Records Office. She looked over at him, thinking she was simply stealing a glance before they each popped open their car doors, only to find him studying her in the glow of the ceiling light. "It's not too late, Molly. You can change your mind. I can find another way to do this."

She reared back, eyes wide: "Is that…are you saying you don't want to…but I thought…"

He hushed her by the simple expedient of once again taking her hand in his and squeezing gently. "I am merely offering you a way out, Molly. I can practically hear your doubts screaming at you." His eyes were steady, not sad at all, but for once she suspected it to be an effort for him to keep them neutral. "Molly, this is it, your only chance to back out. To keep yourself from getting deeper into this crisis I've created for myself."

"You didn't create it, Jim – Moriarty did," she replied, amazed that her voice remained steady and calm even after he'd proposed. ("I need you to marry me, Molly. No, not pretend to be my wife, to actually marry me, to wear my grandmother's rings so Mycroft is forced to believe the truth of our marriage without question.")

He studied her, not just to dissect her failings or gauge her weaknesses or find fault, but as if he were seeing her for the first time. Gauging her resolve, she supposed. "I don't ask this of you lightly, Molly, you know that. And once I put these rings on your finger," he hesitated, then continued after a beat, his voice rough with some emotion she was hard pressed to pin down, "once you are my wife, I hope you understand that to be a…permanent condition. I hope I've made that clear."

"As crystal," she reassured him, reaching out to stroke an unruly curl away from where it overhung his eyes. His gorgeous blue eyes, clouded with uncertainty for the first time since she'd known him. "You know…you know how I feel about you," she said in a whisper, lowering her eyes as she spoke, suddenly shy. "You know I…love you." There, she'd said it aloud. Blushing, she'd started to pull her fingers away from his face, only to have him grasp her hand firmly in his.

"And I care for you, Molly, you know that's as much…as deeply…as I feel about anyone. I do know that there isn't anyone I'd rather have as my wife, and I'm dreadfully sorry it has to be under these circumstances." He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, his eyes never leaving hers, and she blushed even harder. For Sherlock, this was tantamount to a declaration that he loved her madly. She understood that about him, although that measure of understanding had taken her years to grasp.

But she understood it now. Under other circumstances he might never have asked her to marry him – but she was the only one he'd ever considered asking.

And now, it would help preserve his life, and give her a legitimate reason to not only dispose of his body but also to live in his flat (presuming, of course, that John would do as Sherlock predicted he would and immediately move out, join Médecins Sans Frontières and vanish from London for at least six months) and take charge of his personal belongings.

It was a risk, turning her into someone who mattered, but Sherlock had explained that gamble to her – she didn't think she counted, which meant Moriarty didn't think she counted, which meant she wasn't in the same danger as John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade undoubtedly were. And once it was revealed that yes, she did count, it would be too late. Sherlock would be "dead" and there would be no reason to punish anyone who mattered to him.

If, of course, Jim Moriarty couldn't be stopped any other way. And if Sherlock was going to such elaborate lengths to protect the people he cared for, if he was willing to fake his own death to continue to keep them safe, then it was a fair bet that he didn't expect to stop Moriarty's plan from coming together the way the madman wanted it to.

None of which had dissuaded her from doing as Sherlock asked. She married him. She would help him coordinate things with his Homeless Network and be the one to dispose of his mortal remains and do whatever else it would take to keep him and the others safe.

All that lay in the future. For now, they drove back to her flat after leaving the vicarage, where she introduced him to Toby (_"Won't John wonder where you are?" "Not tonight," and no other explanation_), and started to pile extra pillows and a comforter on the sofa when he unexpectedly took her in his arms and kissed her.

Which marked the third time his lips had touched her face: once on the cheek at that horrid Christmas party, once on the lips, a chaste peck, in front of the vicar's beaming face as he married them less than an hour ago, and now.

Only this was no chaste peck, no quick kiss to seal a marital bargain. This was a KISS, full on, her mouth falling open in surprise and his tongue quick to take advantage as the pillows and comforter fell to the floor and Sherlock hauled her closer to him, his arms encircling her shoulders and his chest mashed against hers and…and…

His erection pressing firmly against her mid section.

When he allowed the kiss to end, she gaped up at him, breath coming in ragged gasps, staring at him until she found the breath to finally ask: "I thought you didn't…that you weren't interested…"

He smiled at her, a genuine smile, nothing dark or mocking about it, no false flattery in his eyes as he said, "And I told you, Molly, that this isn't just some mock marriage. You are my wife. I am," he added with a flash of impish humor that nearly buckled her knees it was so unexpected, especially considering the circumstances, "no longer married to my work. I am married to you, Mrs. Holmes. And although fate is conspiring to turn you into a widow no later than twenty-four hours from now, I'm still your husband. And will be again once I've cleared my name and destroyed Moriarty's criminal network," he added, as if reading the self-doubt in her eyes and body language.

Which, of course, was exactly what he'd done. "Married for life, Mrs. Holmes," he reminded her with another flash of that wicked grin. "I promise, I shall do my utmost to keep our enforced time apart to a minimum."

Then he kissed her again, and this time she returned his embrace wholeheartedly, allowed him to lift her in his arms and carry her into her – their – bedroom, where he demonstrated that not only was he not as inexperienced sexually as so many people assumed he was, but that he was downright gifted in certain areas.

Certainly his tongue and fingers were clever in ways she'd never imagined before tonight…

**The Present**

Molly sighed as her thoughts lingered on her (_fantastic, incredible, unbelievable_) wedding night. That was then; this was now. She'd awoken alone, as expected, although she was touched when she dragged herself out of bed and discovered Sherlock had not only fed Toby but had also made a fresh pot of coffee for her.

Going in to work an hour later felt like the bravest thing she'd ever done. What if she let him down, what if she failed to do what he needed her to do?

No, she told herself sternly. She wouldn't let him down. She would do whatever it took to keep him safe, to allow him to come back home to her.

She glanced at the screen of her mobile. It was nearly time. Time to steel herself for the horrors to come, if Sherlock couldn't find some other way out of the insidious trap Moriarty had woven about him. Time to prepare herself for John Watson's anguish, for Mycroft's cold disapproval once he discovered his brother had wed behind his back, for the disbelief and incredulity of everyone who knew or thought they knew Sherlock Holmes.

She wished she'd had acting lessons at some point, had even nervously said so to Sherlock as they lay in her bed together last night. "No, Molly, your honesty and inability to lie very well are exactly what's needed," he'd replied, sounding as cool and composed as ever even though his face was still flushed and his hair was matted with sweat. He'd been holding her in his arms, her head resting on his chest as she spoke, and she knew she looked just as undone as he did. Worse, more likely, since she wasn't one of those lucky people who flushed a becoming shade of rose or pink; no, she got all red and blotchy and unattractive whenever she exerted herself.

He'd read her so well, kissing her soundly and promising that things would go exactly to plan; if he couldn't stop his "death" from happening, at least he had it all meticulously planned out, thanks to her.

She'd resolved then, and she resolved now, not to let him down. Ever.

Her husband. She smiled and slipped the rings back down beneath the cover of her jumper. Even under these circumstances, she felt a thrill at the thought of being Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. And soon the world would know, and attention would fall on her, negative attention for the most part. But Sherlock trusted her to be able to bear up under the strain, and she trusted him to know her well enough to understand what she could and could not handle.

Things would be awful for while, but in the end it would all come out right. Sherlock would do what he had to do, John and others would suffer, but it would all be worth it in the end as long as everyone remained safe.

She fixed that thought in her mind as her mobile rang. She glanced down at the text message and mustered up a smile at the ID: Sherlock Holmes. Two words followed.

_It's time._

Molly set to work.


	7. Monkey Business

_A/N: Inspired by Benedict Cumberbatch's hilarious ComicCon "reveal" about how Sherlock survived The Fall. Watch it on Youtube! Oh, and here there be lemons, so consider yourselves warned. Cover your eyes if necessary at the end of the story!_

* * *

"Sherlock! That – that was NOT NICE!"

Molly Hooper, normally calm, quiet and generally not given to hysterical outbursts, slammed the door of the Path lab behind her hard enough to shiver the frame, then marched over to glare at the object of her ire where he calmly sat gazing into his favorite microscope.

Without looking up, he drawled: "Could you be more specific, Molly? I do a lot of things people deem 'not nice.' Although," he added, finally meeting her gaze with a definite smirk on his lips, "I'm sure you're not referring to our last meeting?" He tilted his head to the side, regarding her thoughtfully as he regarded her flushed cheeks and stormy brown eyes. "Although that particular encounter could be labeled 'not nice' if you're going with the more traditional definition of 'nice' in the sense that those activities hardly fall under the category of 'socially acceptable'..."

She swotted him on the arm, face flushing as she darted a guilty look around the lab, which was quite empty except for the two of them. "No, I wasn't talking about...that," she hissed as her flush deepened. "That was...that was quite...very...yes, it was nice."

"Then you're not talking about how I shagged you up against the wall of the morgue storage cupboard," Sherlock replied musingly, pretending to mull over possibilities while secretly enjoying this conversation very much...and knowing exactly what Molly was talking about. But it was quite fun to see her so flustered, and knowing he was the cause on more than one level was even more fun.

They'd become romantically entangled within weeks of his faked suicide, when he found himself emotionally raw and in need of – no, craving – human contact, a connection to the life he'd sacrificed in order to save John, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade from Moriarty's murderous plot. And it wasn't simply that Molly was available, although it had taken him a while to understand that she believed that was the only reason he initiated their first sexual union. No, he'd been repressing feelings for her, had been ignoring his sexual attraction to her, for much longer than he'd been willing to admit.

All that, however, was in the past. Now, he was having a great deal of fun pretending not to know what she was talking about.

"So it was very nice," he said, encouraging her to continue, deliberately lowering his voice to the slightly deeper register that seemed to work best on her limbic system. "Then perhaps we should try something similar..." He reached down and pulled up the sign he'd prepared earlier, handing it to her face up so she could read it. "Be a good girl and put this on the door and lock it, would you?"

"Lab temporarily closed for...fumigation?" she read, brow furrowed before darting her gaze up to meet his again. "You mean you want...right now? Here?" Her voice squeaked a bit on the last word, but judging by the way her pupils dilated and the visible increase in the pulse just under her jawline, she wasn't entirely against the idea.

He leaned forward, smiling a slow, seductive smile before shrugging out of his suit jacket. "It would be very...nice," he said suggestively. "Don't you think?"

He stood up, leaning across the table. She leaned forward as well, mouth half-opened, obviously more than prepared to meet his lips with her own, when she suddenly stopped, pulled back and frowned. "No, Sherlock!" she said, with some force. She allowed the sign to flutter to the floor as she straightened up and put her hands on her hips. "Stop distracting me!"

"Oh, is that what I was doing?" he asked, using his best innocent voice and expression. "I thought I was simply offering up what we both want." Her frown turned confused, so he elaborated: "Not just the sex, of course, but marking this room the way we've done every room in your flat...and mine...and, of course, the morgue via the supply cupboard." He waved an airy hand around, indicating the lab as a whole. "This is the only other place where we've spent a great deal of time together but haven't yet...christened, I believe is the correct term?"

He found it fascinating to watch her face flush even redder, to see her eyes darting around as if she hadn't actually considered the idea before. Well, it was possible she hadn't, and he certainly hadn't articulated it before, but it was true nonetheless; this was, indeed, the only remaining space where the two of them regularly interacted but hadn't yet...interacted, to be euphemistic and clever, not that he was ever any other way. Well, not always euphemistic, but certainly clever...

Drawing on reserves of will power he hadn't believed she actually possessed, Molly took a step back, folded her arms across his chest, and attempted once again to glare at him. Personally he found it adorable when she tried to be cross with him, especially since she generally failed so miserably at it, but she was making a particular effort today and he supposed it would a good idea for him to let her have her say. John would certainly approve.

"Sherlock." He gave her his best attentive look, hands folded behind his back in spite of the fact that all he really wanted to do at this particular moment was pull Molly close to his body and... "Sherlock!" she repeated, clearly annoyed with him. Oh, had she learned to see through his "attentive look" now? Brilliant! But he'd better really pay attention or there would be hell to pay. And certainly no shagging in his immediate future. "What you did on your web page...that wasn't nice!"

"I did a lot of things on my web page recently, Molly, could you please try to be more specific?" How had he gone so long not realizing that needling Molly deliberately could be so delightful? Well, he always missed something...

"You," she said, maneuvering around the table and getting right in front of him. He backed up a step, but she continued to advance, jabbing a finger into his chest as she continued speaking. "You posted a notification that you were going to tell everyone how you faked your suicide. And then you, you did that, that thing," she waved her hands in the air in exasperation, "that thing with the stupid little stuffed monkey! And pretending that the signal was being disrupted so no one could hear what you said except for teasing little bits here and there...and distorting the image so no one could record it and slow it down and try to read your lips...that was just mean!"

He gave up pretending not to know what she was on about, body shaking with silent laughter as he also gave up pretending he didn't want to take her in his arms. He yanked her close and lowered his head to hers for a very satisfying kiss, which she resisted for about a nanosecond before yielding to his embrace, opening her mouth beneath his and allowing his tongue entry.

When the kiss ended, he released her and began speaking rapidly, trying to get it over with so they could get on with the rest of the afternoon's agenda. "People will not stop pestering me about it, Molly, and since I know you don't want your part in the scheme to be exposed – although I can assure you, your position here is quite inviolable thanks to Mycroft's influence and your own impeccable record, I might add – the only logical thing to do is make it quite clear that there is nothing anyone can do short of becoming an evil criminal mastermind..." He bent, picked up the discarded sign, pulled the small roll of tape out of his pocket and made his way to the door... "that will cause me to give up that secret. Or the identity of any accomplices I may or may not have had. Mycroft and John are the chief suspects, of course," he added as he opened the door, glanced quickly down the hall in both directions – empty of life, excellent – and affixed his very professional looking sign to the window. He shut the door, locked it, pulled the shade and turned back to face Molly, who was gaping at him open-mouthed, giving him some very delightful mental images of her with her mouth open that wide but engaged in more than simply...what was the phrase? Oh yes, "catching flies." He flicked the light switch as he started moving again, leaving only the single light over the sink to keep the room from complete darkness.

"However, suspicions are not facts and I will never reveal those fact to anyone who doesn't already know them. John, as we both know, has proven well able to keep things out of his blog that he knows might hurt anyone. Specifically, you." With that, he returned to Molly's side; why was she still staring at him like that...oh, of course, he'd started undoing the buttons to his shirt as soon as the door was locked behind them. He shrugged it off as soon as he reached her side, then reached out and started in on the buttons to her lab coat.

To her credit, she not only didn't say anything or try to stop him, but actively helped by reaching out and undoing the buckle to his belt. He grinned, knowing it to be wolfish and feral, and was met by her own shy smile, the one he'd grown to know and love. He might once have passed some ridiculous comment about her lips looking too small, but he know how those lips felt beneath his, and how they felt as they caressed his body...and how they felt wrapped around his cock...

He'd been half-hard before, and was now at what Molly teasingly called "full-on steel rod" at this point. It was still astonishing to him to realize that simply thinking about Molly could affect his body so powerfully, but he'd long since given up any inclination to fight the effect she had on him.

And this lab really did need to be christened by the two of them. He'd met her for the first time in this very room; they'd performed experiments together here; more importantly, she'd introduced him to Jim Moriarty here, and although that had proven to be a very unfortunate meeting in more than one way, he needed to erase any claim the dead madman might have on it. Ridiculous, superstitious, but there you had it; Sherlock Holmes giving in to such nonsense, and all because he'd fallen in love with a shy, socially awkward pathologist with big brown eyes and cinnamon colored hair and the dress sense of a twelve-year-old tomboy.

He smiled. His pathologist was currently undressing herself as he shimmied out of his trousers and pants, socks and shoes long since having been removed. He watched appreciatively as she shrugged off her blouse and shucked her trousers and knickers and the lovely pink lace bra that enhanced her small but perfectly shaped breasts so well. Of course, he much preferred them free of any such restraints, no matter how flattering, open to his gaze and hands and lips.

Putting thought to action he pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply, pressing his naked body tightly against hers, maneuvering them so that she backed up to the low counter he'd cleared off before settling in to pretend to examine slides under the microscope. Once she was settled there she was exactly the right height...yes, perfect, was his last coherent thought as she reached down and fisted his cock. "Sherlock, please stop thinking and just fuck me," she whispered against his ear, biting down on the lobe insistently.

He groaned and complied, lifting her legs so she was canted a bit, hips tilted up to meet his as he allowed her to guide him into her welcoming wetness. Yes, he should certainly have engaged in a bit of foreplay and certainly would when they returned to her flat at the end of her shift, but time was a bit of an issue at the moment – the sign would only keep people out for an hour at most before someone started pounding on the door and demanding to know who'd authorized the fumigation during the middle of the day – and he knew Molly understood that as well as he did.

She was leaning back a bit, eyes closed as their hips rocked together, and he leaned down and began pressing a series of feverish kisses along the side of her neck, arched so invitingly and impossible to resist. Her legs locked around his waist, her arms on the counter to support her, she looked completely wanton...and when she opened her eyes and gave him a wicked smile, he increased his movements and thrust his tongue into her mouth with a groan. God, how could he have been brought so low by a woman everyone dismissed as ordinary – including himself, once upon a time?

"Sherlock," she moaned, reaching up to tug at his hair, pulling his face to hers for another kiss, and he could tell she was close, so very close; using one finger, he reached down and delicately scraped it across her clitoris and then watched avidly as she completely fell apart, gasping out his name interspersed with moans and gasps and sharp cries that impelled him to his own orgasm within seconds.

After they'd cleaned up and removed the sign and unlocked the lab – no one, it appeared, had even come down the hall during their liaison, let alone tested the door handle – he pressed one last, lingering kiss to her lips before preparing to leave. "So, Molly, tell me again how not nice I've been," he murmured into her ear.

She laughed and batted him on the arm. "You git! Just promise you'll take that ridiculous video down as soon as you get back to your flat! It's just mean, that's what it is! No matter how nice you are to me," she added with a blush; when would she stop blushing around him, he wondered, while at the same time hoping the answer was "never."

"We'll see," was all he said in response, giving her an irrepressible wink before sauntering out of the lab.

Maybe one day he'd admit to the fact that she was the only one who would ever see that particular video, since the feed had been sent directly to her laptop rather than to the general public.

Sod them; they could ask until Judgement Day for all he cared. He would never answer to the public, not about how he'd survived his fall and certainly not about his relationship with Molly Hooper.

Well, not until the wedding, of course. But until he actually asked Molly to marry him – in, hm, two weeks – that was a concern for another day.

He smiled.


	8. Unreasonable

**Unreasonable**

"Oh, John, thank goodness you're here, it's been just awful!"

Mrs. Hudson ushered her former tenant into the building, practically yanking him by the arm when he hesitated on the doorstep. It was very nearly the middle of the night; he and his new wife Mary had returned less than a week ago from a six month stint in northern Africa for Médecins Sans Frontières. The two were just beginning to feel human again after their long journey home, and had taken that time to get over their jet lag and once again used to being home, with no middle-of-the-night emergencies pulling them out of sleep.

Until now. The only surprise about it was that it had been Mrs. Hudson who'd contacted him, rather than Sherlock. He, on the other hand, hadn't done more than acknowledge John's anouncement of their return with a single, rather distracted-sounding text that essentially said good, wonderful, now piss off, I'm busy. John assumed he'd been on a case, only to be informed by Mrs. Hudson that no, it wasn't a case, and could he come over right away or things would just get worse?

"Oh, the shouting, I can't take it anymore!" she fretted as she motioned John toward the stairs.

Sure enough, he could hear Sherlock's voice, although he couldn't make out what his friend was saying. He was about to ask Mrs. Hudson who he was shouting at and what the problem was – with Sherlock, it could be anything from boredom to Mycroft to an armed gunman – but the unmistakable sound of a smoke alarm going off from Mrs. Hudson's flat distracted them both.

"Oh, that's done it, I've burnt the toast!" she exclaimed before bustling off. "Do straighten things out, will you, John?" she tossed over her shoulder. "Honestly, it's been nothing but shouting for the past two hours and I'm sure that's not good for..."

Whatever it wasn't good for was cut off as Mrs. Hudson disappeared into her flat. John watched her go, somewhat bemused, then turned and looked up the stairs to the flat he'd once shared with the eccentric consulting detective he called his best friend.

Well. It didn't seem as if Mrs. Hudson expected John to find Sherlock shouting at an armed gunman, so he headed up to find out exactly what was going on.

During his and Mary's time away he and Sherlock had commuicated exactly six times; once a month, always by text, always initiated by John. Sherlock's answers had always been short to the point of curtness, but he'd always answered. That had been the deal; Sherlock wouldn't bother John except for emergencies (asking him to come home because Sherlock was bored or needed milk did not constitute an emergency) and John wouldn't bore him with details of the work he and Mary were doing.

It had worked; each knew the other was still alive, and Sherlock knew when the two of them would be home again, John once again available for cases. John had asked for the single week after their return to count as part of the "emergencies only" contact period. He hadn't expected to to get it, of course, and had being pleasantly surprised when Sherlock had actually agreed that the timing would be better if he waited to visit until "after."

Of course, he'd assumed "after" to refer not only to his and Mary's need to recover from their lengthy time away, but also to the mysterious whatever-it-was that was taking up Sherlock's attention at the moment. Not a case, Mrs. Hudson said, but what?

The door was unlocked as always, and he'd been told time and again that he didn't have to knock, but did so anyway, if only to alert Sherlock and whoever it was he was shouting to (_or at; via mobile, over the computer, some unfortunate soul in the flat itself?_) of his arrival.

No response. Only Sherlock's frustrated voice, the words much clearer now: "You have to come out! You're being completely unreasonable about this and you know it!"

Not ten seconds later John was startled by the sight of a dark gray cat streaking by his feet, squeezing through the door and vanishing from sight down the stairs. He ran a hand through his hair, looking back in the direction from which the cat – when had Sherlock got a cat? - had appeared. Was that what all the fuss was about? A cat? Surely not...

No. Definitely not. John's eyes widened as he took a few tentative steps in the direction of the short hall leading to Sherlock's en suite...and heard a muffled voice saying something unitelligible.

A muffled, _feminine_ voice.

Too intrigued not to continue on, he increased his pace and made his way into the hallway.

Sherlock was standing in front of the closed bathroom door, one fist raised as if to pound on it when John cleared his throat. Loudly. "Problem, Sherlock?" he asked in his mildest of tones.

"Is that John?"

He started and stared at the closed door, from behind which the question had been asked. Still a bit muffled, definitely feminine – and unexpectedly familiar.

"Molly?" he asked, a bit at a loss as to why their friend had locked herself in the bathroom. Why was she here in the first place? As far as John knew she hadn't set foot inside the flat since that disastrous Christmas party a few years back, well before Sherlock's fake suicide and dramatic return. "Is something wrong?"

The sound of something that might have been a muffled sob had him scowling at Sherlock. "What the bloody hell did you do this time?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "Molly?" he said in a louder voice. "Are you all right?"

Another sound – a gasp? John was about ready to beat down the door himself when she finally answered, her voice strained and harsh with some unknown – but certainly not pleasant – emotion. "No, I'm not all right, John, and it's all his fault!"

He knew it; Sherlock had opened his stupid mouth and made some stupid deduction after getting Molly to come over for some stupid reason – experiment, most likely, or to smuggle him some random body part or other from the morgue – and said something that hurt her so badly she'd locked herself in the loo.

Sherlock had the temerity to look offended by her words. Before John could once again demand to know what the other man had done, the self-styled consulting detective was shouting again. "It's not all my fault, Molly, and you know it! You have as much to do with this as I do, and as I've been telling you, you need to come out of there so we can go to the hospital!"

The hospital...that did it. Visions of Molly with a broken arm or concussion dancing through his head, John turned to Sherlock to demand: "Where the hell is the key? Why haven't you just picked the locks by now?" Turning his attention back to the door, going immediately into Doctor mode, he called out to Molly cajolingly: "Molly, it's all right, I'm here now, you're safe. Just open the door and let me take a look, yeah? Let me help?"

"I can't do this, John, I told him I can't, but he won't listen," he heard her moan in a broken voice. "It's too hard, it hurts too much..."

"It's too late to back out now," was Sherlock's unhelpful response. John paused in the act of turning to demand that his friend shut up and stop making things worse; there was something in his voice, something John coudn't identify at first, and then he had it.

Fear. Sherlock sounded frightened beneath his usual cool detachment. Now that John's eyes had adjusted better to the dimness of the unlit hallway, he could see it as well, in the hard set of Sherlock's mouth, the drawn expression, the hollows beneath his eyes... "Sherlock," he growled, grabbing his friend's shoulder and giving him a shake. "What the hell is going on? What's happened?"

"Her water broke and she locked herself in the bathroom and says she can't do this, that she's not ready and threatens to brain me with the plunger if so much as touch the bloody doorknob!" Sherlock replied, raking agitated hands through his hair and staring at John, wild-eyed and helpless. "She won't let me call the paramedics, she's being completely unreasonable, John! Do something!"

Her water had broken. Her...water...had broken.

Her _water_ had broken? Molly was...

"Molly? You're pregnant?"

It was admittedly a stupid thing to say, but John couldn't get his brain to wrap itself around the words Sherlock had just spoken.

"Of course she's pregnant, John, nearly nine months gone, her due date is Tuesday next and her contractions are roughly fifteen minutes apart and_ Molly! Open this bloody door or I will break it down! We need to get you to the hospital!"_

"Molly, please!" John added his own voice to Sherlock's. "Let us in, love, let me have a look, you know I'm a doctor. Or I could have Mary come if you'd prefer," he added, in case Molly was put off by the idea of a man – even one she knew – having a look up her skirts. Even if there was a baby about to be born.

And just whose baby was it, anyway? Where was the father in all this, why hadn't Sherlock called him?

Before he could ask either of those quesions, he heard the soft click of the lock, then the bathroom door opened the tiniest sliver. He saw Molly's tear-streaked face, red and blotchy as she swiped her hand across her nose. "Sorry, John, I know it's ridiculous, but I guess I just panicked. You can come in."

Her apologetic expression turned to a glare as she caught Sherlock's gaze. "But not you. You can go fetch a cab. I don't want an ambulance, it isn't necessa..." Her words cut off as she let loose a guttural moan, hunching over and clutching her hands to her stomach as another contraction rippled across her abdomen.

There was pure panic in Sherlock's voice as he said: "That was less than five minutes between! John, do something!"

"Sherlock, call Mary," John said, as calmly as he could manage as he took Molly's arm and helped her sit on the toilet lid. "Then let Mrs. Hudson know what's going on and one of you call a paramedic team." He gave Molly a sympathetic look at her squeak of protest. "Sorry, Molly, but there's no arguing with me, doctor's orders. We're going to go to Sherlock's room, all right? I assume the bed is currently free of noxious experiments?"

Molly laughed a bit harder than the feeble joke deserved, but John was glad she was focused on the realities of the situation and no longer trying to deny what was about to happen. Her laughter abruptly turned to an anguised moan and Sherlock was right; the contractions were far too close together now

He glanced up, only to see that the other man had vanished. Good; Mary was the best obstetrical nurse he'd ever worked with and Mrs. Hudson was calm in a crisis, so if Sherlock was contacting them – he was very, very glad he'd allowed himself to be talked into letting a flat less than a ten minute walk from Baker Street – then things would be under control, hopefully long enough for the paramedics to arrive.

After he'd finished his impromptu examination, he managed to once again coax Molly to her feet and led her into Sherlock's bedroom. Tossing the duvet on the floor – what had possessed his friend to purchase one with flowers on it? - he helped Molly lie down, after ascertaining that, no, she didn't want to remove her loose top, only her skirt and knickers.

He helped her do so after draping the sheet – also flowered, matching the duvet – across her midsection. He instructed her to raise her knees, pursing his lips as he saw that she appeared to have reached full dilation already. More worrisom was the fact that the baby was already crowning.

"Molly, love, this baby is ready to come, and soon. Probably sooner than the paramedics can get here, and definitely faster than the father can. Does Sherlock know to call him or do you want me to have Mrs. Hudson do it?"

For some reason that caused Molly to practically fall into hysterics, she was laughing so hard. Oh dear, had he put his foot in, had she gone the AI route? Come to think of it, he didn't remember hearing about any new boyfriends before he'd left, and this baby was certainly full term or near enough to it that it had to have been conceived well before he and Mary had left for Africa.

Just then Sherlock skidded into the room, having clearly run there. He paused in the doorway, his eyes on Molly although he spoke to John in a soft voice: "Mary's on her way. Mrs. Hudson has called the paramedics and why is Molly laughing?" Without waiting for any response from his friend, he repeated the question to Molly. "Molly? Why are you laughing?"

She caught her breath long enough to gasp out: "John wants to know if he should call my baby's father!" Then the laugher overtook her again, at least until the next contraction hit and turned it into gasps and moans of pain.

With three long strides Sherlock was next to her, perching on the edge of the bed and taking her hand in his. "Go ahead and squeeze," he instructed her. "And do try to remember your breathing, that's what all those godawful birthing classes were for, weren't they? To teach you how to do something you already – aargh!"

Molly, it would appear, had taken his words to heart and squeezed. Tightly. "One more word," she grit out as the contraction eased. "One more word and I swear to you, boy or girl, I will name this child Hamish whether you like it or not!"

"Hamish Hooper-Holmes is the most ridiculously alliterative name in the history of ridiculously alliterative names," he snapped, then flinched as Molly's fingers tightened on his once again.

To his credit, Sherlock did not remove his hand from hers.

To John's credit, he did not spend very long floundering about the fact that this was _Sherlock's_ baby he was delivering.

He was too busy with said delivery to deal with that astounding fact. But as soon as this little one (_Hamish? They'd considered naming their child after him?_) was born; as soon as Molly was taken to hospital, he and Sherlock were going to have a serious discussion.

**oOo**

"So," John said as he and Sherlock stood in front of the window that separated them (temporarily) from Lisbeth Ann Hooper-Holmes (six pounds four ounces, 20 inches long, dark curls and the indeterminate blue eyes that could go either bluer or brown in time). "Is there something you want to tell me?"

The two men were alone for the moment. Mary and Mrs. Hudson had visited with Molly and the baby, then Mary had offered to share a cab with the older woman under the pretence that they were both tired – although really it was to give John and Sherlock some time together to talk things over. John was grateful for their tact, although he had a sneaking suspicion his friend wasn't going to make this easy.

Sherlock shrugged, his gaze locked on the form of his sleeping daughter. "Molly and I have been involved since my return."

John turned to stare at him, outraged. "Sherlock, that's almost two years now!"

His friend shrugged again. "We decided it would be best if we kept our relationship private. You know how the press contiued to hound me that first year after my return. Why would I want to subject the woman I love to such scrutiny?"

"The woman you...Sherlock, you do know what you just said, right?" John sputtered. "Love, you said, love, I'm not hearing things am I?" Before his friend could make any response he rushed on: "You said love was a chemical defect found on the losing side. You hate sentiment! So what happened?"

"Molly happened," Sherlock replied simply. "Just like Mary happened for you. So when she discovered she was pregnant – not her fault, nor mine, we used condoms and she was on the pill but no precautions are 100% foolproof – we decided it was time to formalize things."

"Formalize...What does that mean exactly?"

John felt as if he'd been run over by a lorry. The two-ton kind Americans called "eighteen wheelers" - and not entirely because he'd delivered a baby less than three hours ago.

Sherlock turned to him with a distinct smirk on his face. "Once again, John, you see but you do not observe."

Then he held up his left hand and let John get a good, long look at the simple gold band on his third finger.

"You...that's...you son of a bitch!" John swore, the shocked expression on his face giving way to a fierce scowl. "You two got married _and didn't tell us?_"

Sherlock scowled right back at him. "You said emergencies only, John. My wedding to Molly hardly constituted an emergency!"

John gaped at him for moment, then shook his head in disgust. "You really do take the cake, you know that?" With that pronouncement he spun on his heel and stalked away, steam practically pouring from his ears.

**oOo**

When Sherlock related this encounter to Molly the next morning – having dozed in the chair by her bedside the entire rest of the night – she shook her head and pursed her lips in that way she had that told him he'd done something Not Good.

"Sherlock Vernet Holmes," Molly said in her sternest voice. The one that (although he would never admit it to her) reminded him of Mummy when she was disappointed in something he'd said or done. "You need to apologize to John right this instant. I've already apologized to Mary for not telling her, but she said she understood why we kept things to ourselves...just like we understood why she and John wanted to spend their time in Africa completely focused on their work. But," she added, raising her voice when it was clear Sherlock was about to interrupt, "I thought you were going to tell John as soon as we found out! Why didn't you?"

Sherlock felt that, for a man whose wife had just given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl, he was doing an awful lot of scowling. But scowl he did as Moll held her arms out and he reluctantly placed his daughter into them. "John said emergencies only," he tried, but Molly was having none of it.

"Go apologize, Sherlock," she ordered. "Or so help me, it isn't too late to change Lisbeth's middle name to Hamish!"

He felt the scowl melt away as he regarded his wife, looking so fierce as she cradled their daughter in her arms. She was completely out of sorts with him, certainly still exhausted from her late-night ordeal...and utterly beautiful. He gave in to impulse, leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, not moving until she gave a sigh of capitulation and returned the kiss.

"You impossible man," she said, giving him a fond smile before nudging his arm with her elbow. "Go make things right with John. You've punished him enough for daring to drop everything and go off to a diferent continent for six months with his wife. And," she added as he rose to his feet to finally do as she'd asked (as they'd both known all along he would), "don't wait until the day before the Christening to ask them to be the godparents, all right?"

The sound he made as he left the room might have been one of agreement...or it might not. Molly sighed, resigned herself to speaking to Mary about it, and pressed a kiss to her sleeping daughter's head. "Oh, your father is going to be a chore, Lizzie," she mumured as she gazed down at the peaceful sight. "Completely unreasonable most of the time." She broke into a smile as she added: "But I promise you, he's worth it. Always."

* * *

_A/N: Dedicated to my readers and reviewers who requested a Sherlolly baby! Thanks for your support!_


	9. Eminently Lickable

**Eminently Lickable**

_Dedicated to Rocking the Redhead for her marvelous typo in her review for "Unreasonable", which inspired this little bit of PWP. Cover your eyes, ladies; here there be lemons!_

"Molly, there's something I need to ask you."

Molly's response to that unexpected male voice in the ladies' locker room was a short screech as she clutched her towel more tightly around herself. She'd just exited the shower and was heading out of the bathroom to change when he spoke. "Sherlock!" she gasped out, her expression half alarmed and half angry. "You can't be in here! What are you doing in here? Someone else might come in!"

"There's a sign on the door indicating the bathroom is closed for repairs," was Sherlock's impatient reply. "And as you well know, there are no other female morgue staff members on duty this evening. Do give me some credit, Molly."

She blinked rapidly and once again tightened her hold on the towel that was all that covered her. "Right, then," she said, clearing her throat and hoping to God she wasn't flushing as red as she suspected she was. She was trying desperately not to be upset by her lack of clothing; Sherlock wasn't exactly overly concerned with modesty and only considered the human body transport for the brain, which meant he wasn't actually going to notice what she was or wasn't wearing. Especially not if he had some burning question he needed her to answer. "So what, what did you want to ask me?"

"I overheard a conversation between two women the other day, and one of the statements made requires clarification."

He stepped closer as he spoke, and Molly found herself backing up until she was stopped by the low bench in front of the bathroom's two small shower stalls. Since she hadn't realized how far she'd moved back into the bathroom, she squeaked in alarm and might have tumbled to the floor if Sherlock wasn't suddenly right there in front of her, his arms around her as he caught and held her upright.

When he showed no inclination to release her, merely cocked his head in an inquisitive manner, Molly asked: "Wh-what statement?" The sooner she answered his question, the sooner he would leave her alone. Not that she wanted him to leave her alone, of course – she was quite enjoying the feel of his arms around her, especially since she'd assumed he would release her as soon as she was once again steady on her feet – but knowing Sherlock this was simply his way of ensuring he had a captive audience, so to speak. Making sure she didn't try to duck out of answering whatever it was he wanted her to explain to him.

His eyes boring into hers, he said, "The two women in question were speaking about a man they both fancied. Describing the parts of his body they were particularly interested in…touching."

Molly's heart was beating a rapid tattoo in her chest as she waited, lips parted and eyes wide, for Sherlock to continue. She had a feeling she knew exactly what conversation he was talking about, since it sounded suspiciously like one she and her friend Meena had shared a few days ago, but wasn't about to confirm that suspicion until Sherlock finished.

Sure enough, his next words, spoken in a slightly husky voice, were: "Tell, me Molly, why it is that my neck is so 'eminently lickable'."

As she continued to stare up at him, something about the intimacy of the moment, instead of panicking her, gave her the courage to do what she did next, to say in a voice that was just as husky as his: "Why don't you let me show you instead?"

Then she reached up, quickly undid the top buttons to his aubergine dress shirt – God, she loved that color on him – and spread the collar open with trembling fingers as she raised herself up onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to the exposed column of his throat.

**oOo**

The sensation of Molly's lips on his throat, her tongue gliding across his skin, brought a gasp of mingled surprise and pleasure from Sherlock's lips before he could stop the sound from escaping. This certainly hadn't been his intent, to entice Molly into putting her mouth on him – or had it? Why else would he have waited until he knew she was alone in the locker room, finishing up her shower, to approach her? Why else would he have gone to the trouble to mock up a "Bathroom Closed for Repairs" sign to deter any unexpected female employees from using this out-of-the-way location for their bodily functions? What he'd told Molly was true; there were no other female morgue employees on duty tonight – in fact, aside from Molly, there was only one other person on this level at all, and he was currently dozing in his office down the hall.

No, he had to own up to the fact that, consciously or not, this was exactly the sort of reaction he'd hoped to provoke out of her. Especially once he seized advantage by keeping her from tumbling onto her – mmm, very shapely, when had his hands wandered southward? – arse.

Probably, he thought distractedly, about the same time her hands had moved to undo the remainder of his buttons and slid his shirt and jacket off his shoulders. Or possibly after her towel had dropped to the floor. Certainly not long after her naked body was pressed tightly against his, their groins grinding together, his erection – oh, he had an erection now, fascinating, brilliant! – rubbing against the slick wetness of her core.

Someone was moaning, but he couldn't be bothered trying to analyze whether the sound came from her throat or his. Not when he was busy tugging at her hair, pulling her face up to meet his for a searing kiss that left them both breathless, when her tongue was aggressively plunging into his mouth and coaxing his into a heated tango.

He exerted just enough pressure for her to understand that he wanted her to drop down to a seated position; she complied with a murmur and a low moan that clearly was in response to the way his teeth were nibbling at her earlobe, or possibly to the feel of his hands on her breasts as he knelt before her once her bottom made contact with the bench.

Their mouths joined for another hungry kiss as Sherlock allowed his hands to wander down the soft curves of Molly's seated form, coming to rest on her thighs. They parted beneath his insistent touch, spreading obediently wider as his thumbs caressed the backs of her knees. His mouth slipped down to her throat, which he licked experimentally. Ah, yes, now he understood the term he'd originally come here to question her about. Her throat, too, was 'eminently lickable.'

Her throat, and other body parts.

His mouth continued its questing exploration of her body, lingering on her breasts while her hands lifted up and tangled themselves in his hair. He thought she mumbled something about wanting to do that forever but dismissed it as irrelevant; he was completely focused on the feel of her nipples beneath his tongue and fingers, and the guttural moans his touch was now eliciting were having a very, very pleasant effect on his body.

More specifically, on his cock, which was throbbing almost in time to her moans. And the feel of her fingers digging into his scalp sent a frisson of pleasure down his spine like nothing he'd ever experienced, brought his mouth away from her breasts and down her stomach until it landed on her damp sex with a greedy suckling motion he certainly hadn't consciously planned.

Molly definitely appreciated the move, judging by the squeal of pleasure that erupted from her lips, not to mention the way her hands spasmed in his hair, fingernails temporarily digging into the tender flesh of his scalp hard enough to leave marks, if not draw blood. He would investigate later; right now the slick wetness beneath his tongue and lips required his full and undivided attention.

Using his thumbs, he spread her gently open, licking her exposed opening from base to tip, lingering on her clitoris. She gabbled out sounds that included his name and the words 'fuck yeah' more than once, along with something that sounded like 'more' and 'harder' and 'God, yes, right there' and happily obliged her. The scent and taste was unlike anything he'd ever experienced; not unpleasant, but difficult to describe. He would attempt to find the right words later, when his mind and senses weren't on the brink of being overwhelmed by the tactile pleasure he was feeling.

Molly, too, appeared on the brink of something; once again her fingers spasmed on his head, and when glanced up at her face, her head was thrown back, her throat taut, her nipples pebbled and the pulse in her throat beating madly.

An equally throbbing pulse made itself felt beneath his tongue just as a wail tore itself from her throat and she rocked against his mouth. He sucked in the nub of her clitoris, pressing his tongue against it firmly as she cried out his name and another of those delightful 'fuck yeahs' she'd been vocalizing all along.

He removed his mouth reluctantly when it became apparent that the tugs on his head were because she was trying to pull him away rather than encouraging him closer as she had been only moments earlier. He met her wild-eyed gaze as her head tilted forward and his back; then she was on him, pressing him to the floor, her hands on his belt, tugging it free, releasing the button and lowering the zip to his trousers. She freed his straining erection and wasted no time in lowering her head to his cock, licking its full length several times before taking it fully into her mouth.

Then it was his turn to moan and gasp out her name and the occasional 'fuck yes' – it actually did add to the experience when spoken as well as heard, the tiny little portion of his mind still capable of analytical thought noted the first time he gasped out the phrase – while pressing his fingers to her head, tangling them in her wet hair.

All too soon it was over; it had been, after all, over a decade since he'd engaged in any kind of sexual relationship. He tried to pull away, to let Molly know he was close, but she simply pushed his hand away and continued to suck him off until the inevitable outcome had been reached and he came in her mouth with an intensity that left him shaking and gasping long after she'd pulled her mouth away.

When he could focus, he looked up at her, finding her staring down at him with a half-fearful expression on her face, as if expecting him to critique her technique or say something unfavorable about her.

Not this time. Not ever again, he decided as he reached for her, pulling her onto him and kissing her fervently. Well, yes, ever again; he couldn't help it sometimes, didn't always understand the emotional repercussions of what he said until after the words had already left his mouth. But he would try very hard not to hurt her, by either words or actions.

Not if he wanted this delightful change in their relationship to continue. He expressed that very thought to her, wanting her to understand it wasn't just a one-off on his part, and the shy smile that greeted his words was answer enough.

This time, he'd got it right.


	10. Cast Me Gently Into Morning

**Cast Me Gently Into Morning**

_A/N: Another plot bunny bit me on the ankle and wouldn't let go, so here it is. Songs and lyrics mentioned below belong to their writers and singers, just as the characters belong to Moftiss and BBC and not me, dammit. __Dedicated to navybabe for inspiring this songfic – sorry, hon, I stole it back! Hope you're not mad!_

* * *

Sherlock had left the Tube and was walking up the stairs to the street before he found the gift Molly had somehow slipped into his jacket pocket without him noticing.

His eyebrows rose as he reached in for his cigarettes – he'd started smoking again after a week of hiding in Molly's flat nearly drove him mad with boredom – and found instead a small MP3 player.

When had she…ah, of course. When she'd hugged him good-bye. He'd allowed the sentimental gesture, knowing it would make her feel better – and unwilling to admit that it did the same for him. He was off to take down the late, unlamented Jim Moriarty's criminal network, had hidden out in Molly's flat for two weeks after she helped him fake his suicide, and the hug had been…Well. He'd frankly enjoyed it, enjoyed the feel of her arms around him, and the soft touch of her lips when she'd pressed them to his cheek. He could even feel the warmth of her breath against his ear when she'd quietly urged him to be careful, to come back to them as soon as possible.

The catch in her voice had betrayed how close she'd been to tears, and he'd chosen that moment to slip out of her embrace and exit the flat, wearing his new clothes – denim jeans, worn and torn, workman's boots, a ratty t-shirt and hoodie – and sporting a hairstyle that completed the look. Molly had assured him that the ginger hair color suited him, and very nearly matched the scruffy, scraggly facial hair he'd allowed to grow in. It had always struck him as odd how light his body hair was in comparison to his naturally dark curls, but it had certainly come in handy since no one had ever seen him like this except his brother Mycroft – and that had been years ago, when Sherlock had been home on break from uni and decided to try and grow a beard.

That experiment had been nipped in the bud once he realized how ridiculous he looked, and not just because of the lighter hair color. It made him look like the junkie he'd narrowly avoided turning into when his experimentation with drugs had nearly led him over the cliff into true addiction.

Now, however, that look was exactly the one he was cultivating: harmless street person, junkie on the make, a low-level hustler. That persona would lead him to contacts within Moriarty's organization and from there he would progress.

That was the plan. It was not the plan, however, for Molly to have stolen his cigarettes and replaced them with…what, a mishmash of popular music? Her taste and his did not even come close to coinciding, with the single exception of her appreciation for Mozart.

He should toss it away, but for some reason his fingers refused to let go of it. Instead, he found himself putting the earbuds in place as he reached his first destination, the hideout he'd prepared for himself while Molly was busy with the preparations he'd asked of her the night before his jump from the roof of St. Bart's.

At least he'd had the forethought to leave a carton of cigarettes there among the other things he'd be needing. Like a laptop, changes of clothing, the materials for future disguises, and of course packets of crisps.

He should busy himself with all of that, but no. He turned on the MP3 player, opening up the first file, the one that said "Me First."

He felt a grin tugging at his lips. Typical Molly, so forthright. Some might call her choice of titles unimaginative, but not him. She knew he loathed coyness and would appreciate her straightforwardness.

It was her voice that filled his ears, instructing him that, if this gift would in any way endanger him or give something away, that of course she would understand if he binned it or burned it. But if he thought it was safe to keep, she hoped he enjoyed what she'd posted on it. Then she'd read out what was clearly a printed list of the playlist she'd prepared for him: Works of Mozart and Chopin, a few other composers he'd mentioned enjoying on the few occasions they'd discussed music (and not ended up in a row about whose taste was better); several scientific audiobooks and lectures she thought he would enjoy; herself dictating several autopsy reports that he hadn't been involved in, in case he got bored and needed a puzzle to occupy his mind – and two other files she listed only as "Personal and Confidential."

Curious, he flicked to the first of the two, which she'd labeled only with the date – 10 October 2011. Before opening it, he searched his Mind Palace for any pertinent data regarding that date.. and smiled disbelievingly before giving it a brief listen.

Yes. It was, indeed, John Watson's voice he heard. He'd gone to some boring medical conference in Dublin, presenting a paper on field medicine under combat conditions. Sherlock had listened to it once and been impressed, although he'd been sure to act disinterested when John asked him about it. He would have to be sure to apologize for that bit of tomfoolery once he returned to the life he'd so recently been forced to abandon, he mused to himself, blinking rapidly and refusing to identify the reason for said blinking.

Because, of course, Sherlock Holmes did not get emotional.

He shut off the lecture, saving it for later, and went on to the second item Molly had listed as "Personal and Confidential." It, too, bore a simple label, this time a one-word title: "Answer."

It was a song, by a woman singer he couldn't identify beyond being American and in her early 30s when she'd recorded it, possibly after the birth of her first child. He would look her up later and find that it was Sarah McLachlan, and that the song was from her album _Afterglow_, recorded in 2003. He would also discover that she was one of Molly's favorite singers and that the disk held pride of place on the top of her small stack of CDs.

But that was after. For now, all he understood was that this song was telling him what Molly herself couldn't bring herself to say to him. All her feelings, her concerns about his well-being – and his possible concerns for her ability to do everything he'd asked of her – were in the lyrics.

_I will be the answer at the end of the line_

_I will be there for you while you take the time_

_In the burning of uncertainty I will be your solid ground_

_I will hold the balance if you can't look down_

_If it takes my whole life I won't break I won't bend_

_It'll all be worth it, worth it in the end_

'_Cause I can only tell you what I know_

_That I need you in my life_

_When the stars have all gone out_

_you'll still be burning so bright_

_Cast me gently into morning _

_for the night has been unkind_

_Take me to a place so holy_

_That I can wash this from my mind_

_The memory of choosing not to fight_

_If it takes a whole life I won't break I won't bend_

_It'll all be worth it, worth it in the end_

'_Cause I can only tell you what I know_

_That I need you in my life_

_When the stars have all burned out_

_you'll still be burning so bright_

_Cast me gently into morning for the night has been unkind…_

When the song ended, he pulled the earbuds out and carefully shut off the MP3 player before returning it to his jacket pocket. There was a smile lurking on his lips as he finally turned to the tasks he should have started the moment he arrived, and the song ran through his head as a sort of background accompaniment to his thoughts while he methodically began the research he needed to do in order to ensure that his new persona would make the right impression on the right people.

Molly knew him so well. And now he felt he knew her far, far better than he had before.

She would never, he vowed silently to himself before fully immersing himself in the task at hand, have reason to doubt her importance to him ever again.

**oOo**

Three months after Sherlock left her flat to take down Jim Moriarty's criminal empire, Molly Hooper received a package in the mail. There was no return address, but as soon as she opened it, she knew who it was from.

The packaged contained only two things: a small MP3 player, similar to the one she'd gifted Sherlock with when he'd left, and a note bearing only two words.

_Track Three._

She dug out her earbuds, attached them to the MP3 player and put them in her ears, pressing the button to start Track Three.

As she listened, tears rolled down her cheeks although a smile tugged her lips upward.

It was a song, just one song, but it spoke volumes, told her so much: that her gift had been received and appreciated, that she truly did count…and that Sherlock Holmes was not as heartless as either he or so many others believed.

After the song ended, she replayed it again and again, drinking in the message he'd sent her, the familiar strains singing through her heart in a way they never had before.

The Mamas and the Papas had always been her father's favorite group, and this song had already been special to her because of him…and now it meant even more to her as she sang along, her voice a low, quavering whisper, tears still rolling down her cheeks. Tears of happiness.

_Each night before you go to bed, my baby,_

_Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby,_

_And tell all the stars above._

_This is dedicated to the one I love…_


End file.
